


Winter is Coming: The Winter Queen & the Black Dragon

by Ralph_E_Silvering



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Political Alliances, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 107,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralph_E_Silvering/pseuds/Ralph_E_Silvering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The North Remembers. What happens when Sansa reaches the Wall, and discovers her brother dead? The Starks are hard to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Edd

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. This story follows more the chronology of the show, but different parts of the books are brought in as well. It’s basically my idea of what could happen in Season 6. It will mainly follow the Starks and the North, but I may bring in other storylines as well. So far the main characters look like they will be Jon and Sansa, but it will follow any alternating viewpoint of many characters, like the books. 

The first chapter picks up right after the end of the last scene of Season 5, with Jon Snow bleeding out alone in the snow.

&……&……&……&……&……&

Edd  
&..&..&

The first thing Edd Tollet knew upon waking up was that it was still night, and therefore bloody cold.

The second was that Ghost, Jon Snow’s white direwolf, was frantically tugging at and licking him, keening piteously.

A freezing wind was howling in from the open door. The other men around him lay snoring, buried under mountains of fur and wool blankets. Only one candle was lit, guttering worryingly next to the Arndel.

“Cor, can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep even when the world’s about to end,” he grumbled, digging the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up. He froze, gaze narrowing when the young boy, Olly, Jon’s steward, came through the door. The kid’s eyes were dark and his hands were still slightly bloody.

Ghost growled low in his throat, menacing and feral, and Edd was up out of his bed in a second, making for the door and throwing on boots and a heavy cloak as he went. He turned back only to grab his sword, and then he was hurtling down the rickety wooden stairs of the steward’s tower and out into the freezing night air of the main courtyard. The wind tore through his thick sleeping clothes like they were made of paper, and froze the moisture in his eyes. He wiped his already running nose.

Across the courtyard were sputtering torches, a crude sign of which Edd could make out no words, and a dark shape lying still in the snow. Ghost, always quiet, was crouched over it and clearly trying to howl. Edd pushed himself faster, stumbling and tripping until he fell at the side of the Lord Commander.

Jon’s eyes were blank and open; filled with horror and grief. Blood still seeped into the snow, black in the flickering yellow torchlight, and when Edd reached out a hand, he was still warm to the touch. A sign with a crude rendering of the word ‘traitor’ was hammered into the ground by his head.

Edd opened his mouth, but only a faint croack came out. He felt suddenly cold, as cold as when the Wights and their masters, the White Walkers, froze the very air at Hardhome. But this time there was no Jon beside him. 

Jon was gone.

And then he turned his head and saw Olly standing on the steps of the steward’s tower, saw the blood on his hands, and fury rose within him.

“Murder!” he screamed, “Murder!” His voice rent the still, dead air. “They have murdered the Lord Commander!”

Ghost found his voice, and for the first time Castle Black rang to the howls of a direwolf.

Men came pouring from the dark stone towers, holding bare steel in their hands and rubbing sleep from their eyes. Edd looked for the ones who were more awake and found what he was looking for on the faces of Bowen Marsh and Alliser Thorne, just as he suspected.

He hauled himself to his geet as his brothers came towards him, aware that his knees were covered in Jon’s blood. His shaking hand pointed towards the First Ranger and the First Steward. “You fucking bastards,” he snarled. “You fucking traitors. Oathbreakers!”

“Hold your tongue before your superiors, Steward Tollett,” snapped Thorne.

The handsome, young prostitute, Satine, who had come in with the last batch of recruits, was crying silently. He bend down over Jon and gently closed his eyes. 

The knight, Davos Seaworth, King Stannis Baratheon’s man, pushed through the growing crowd of angry, restless, muttering black brothers. The man did not look well; his beard was matted, dark circles were under his eyes, and his clothes had not been changed for several days. The Night’s Watch all knew how he grieved for the Princess Shireen, but the gossiping and fearful whispers, placed her death not at the hands of the Boltons, but rather at those of the Red Woman, the fell Red Sorceress from the east, who had been given rooms in the Commander’s own tower. That had set the black brothers towards whispering even more.  
B  
ut in any event, no one had had the nerve or heart to tell Davos Seaworth about their suspicions; they had merely left him alone in his vain belief that Stannis Baratheon would one day marched along the King’s Road towards Castle Black if he just waited long enough.

Davos Seaworth looked from the Lord Commander’s body to the sign, to the half-clad men surrounding it. “Who was a part of this?!” he yelled, in his coarse, rude accent; a pirate, and no true knight at all, as Thorne kept reminding them all.

“You’re a traitor and a coward, Thorne,” Edd said now, coldly. He gripped his sword tightly, raised it to point squarely at the First Ranger. “And you’ll get the justice of the North. I’ll do it myself,” he promised.

Thorne didn’t say a word, merely gave him a contemptuous look, but the First Steward looked almost green with sudden fear.

“Let’s be rational about this,” Bowen Marsh said, placating. “We have no idea who did this, and no sure way of finding out. I assume no one else was here to witness, besides those who did the deed?”

The muttering all around them had not stopped, but rather grew in fury and intensity. “The Lord Commander’s dead,” ran the whispers. “Just like the Old Bear,” still more whispered back. 

Toad and Big Jon and Jace from the Fingers, Corath a ranger from the Shadow Tower who had followed Jon at Hardhome, and Hobb from the kitchens, pushed through and stood behind Edd, hands on their swords, and forming a loose semi-circle around the body of their former Commander.

“He deserved it,” Olly piped up from behind Thorne. “He was a traitor.” The boy’s voice was filled with loathing, and Edd reflected sourly that no good deed goes unpunished. Jon should have sent the boy packing, not kept him with the Watch. The child was consumed by hatred.

“He allied with those northern barbarians, and he was planning to make a move against Roose Bolton in a couple of weeks. He was no Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He broke every vow he ever swore. Our job is to defend the wall. That is our duty, our only duty. We were honor bound to take action.” Thorne’s voice was stern and utterly uncaring.  
And he was making some valid points, curse the Seven Gods, and the Old Gods before them.

“What would you know of honor, Thorne?” growled Davos Seaworth.

“So, you admit your treason, First Ranger of the Night’s Watch?” demanded Edd. His hand was going numb and his arm was sore, but he refused to lower the sword.

The men were all watching each other warily now, hand son their weapons and mistrust shining in their eyes. The muttering grew louder and the fighting would start soon, brother against brother, as they tore themselves apart looking for traitors.

One of the builders, Long Arn from King’s Landing, broke away and attempted to run – to where Edd did not know. Nor did he care.

“Ghost,” he said, and the direwolf moved, men diving aside to let him pass. He was upon Arn in a flash. The man didn’t even have time to cry out before his throat was torn away.

Bowen Marsh’s voice rose plaintively above the resulting din. “But we have no proof of who was involved.”

“We will if we torture it out of the boy,” yelled another voice, clearly indicating Olly. Edd thought it was old Dywen’s.

“Ghost knows,” Satine said, quietly.

“Ay, that’s true, said Toad. “That’s what Sam would say if he were here,” he said approvingly, referencing their absent friend, Samwell Tarly, the big fat coward who had been the first man to kill an Other in a thousand years. Sam was on his way south though, to become a Maester in Old Town before returning to the Watch. Jon’s death would destroy him, Edd knew. They had become as close as brothers.

Thorne sneered. “A wolf has no say in who’s guilty or not. No trial would be decided on such evidence. You’re talking nonsense, you little whore.”

There was angry muttering from some of the men, and Satine turned faintly pink.

“You’re in the North. Justice is decided differently here, Throne,” grim Torhen from the Vale of Arryn snapped. “Or did you forget that, considering you’ve never been north of the Wall since your First Ranging.”

“The beast should be put to death, now that the bastard’s dead,” Thorn continued, ignored Torhen. Several men nodded along with him, but most others watched the First Ranger with mistrust.

The sun was glinting on the horizon now, lightening the shadows in the courtyard. The torches around Jon’s body were sputtering and going out, leaving the world in gray shadow. The air was no warmer though, and soon the men would begin to get frostbite. Edd’s fingers were numb and red.

There was a restless, waiting silence, broken only by the strong wind from the North, as the men of the Night’s Watch contemplated the white direwolf. Ghost had returned to Edd’s side as though declaring his support for the beleaguered steward, and bared his blood teeth at the circle of watching men.

The sun broke through the clouds and over the walls of Castle Black. Jon Snow had set the Builders to repairing every inch of the southern walls over the past several months, even making them higher, like the walls of a proper castle, and their work was almost completed. The scars from the Battle against Thormund Giantsbane were almost gone – deep though they had been.

And now the Wildling chieftain was on their side. His men had killed Green and Pyp and forty-eight other brothers, and now they fought together.

Or so Jon said, but the Night’s Watch obviously disagreed considering that they had murdured him.

‘I always get stuck with the shit,’ he thought, gloomily. ‘Some people get to be peacefully dead, and I have to make a choice that’ll get me knifed no matter what I choose.’

He looked down at Jon again. The Lord Commander didn’t look peaceful though. He just looked…..dead.

‘Probably just as much work and bad choices wherever he is now,’ Edd thought, morosely, ‘and they’ll have invented a whole new category just for me by the time I die. Knowing my luck, instead of freezing, I’ll be burning, and there’ll be dragons everywhere.’ 

“Jon Snow and Ghost were linked,” Satine spoke up again. He was loyal to Jon unto death it seemed. Death and beyond.

“Skinchanger,” muttered an old ranger. “That’s what they call people like him north of the wall.”

“The Stark boy was a skinchanger,” another man spoke up now. “His wolf was a part of him, and he was a part of it. That is not just a wolf.”

“He was not a Stark, he was a bastard,” Othell Yarwyck spoke up, the contempt clear in his voice. “He had no honor, he proved that by allying with the Wildings!”

“He damn well had more sense than you, Yarwyck!” shouted Davos Seaworth.

“He had Stark blood,” shouted another man. Edd thought he came from the Umbar lands. Edd was not a northerner himself, but he knew how deep the loyalty to the Starks ran in the north. The vast majority of the Night’s Watch men who came from the North had stood behind Jon Snow since the moment he had been elected Lord Commander. “There’s strength in the Starks. And that wolf was his. You leave it alone.”

“They called his brother the Young Wolf, those Norhtmen of his,” shouted a voice Edd did not recognized from the back. “They say he rode to battle on his direwolf, and that the little lame lord, the brother, could run with his wolf before he was killed by Theon Greyjoy.”

‘Bran,’ Edd thought. Jon had told him once that the Lannisters had pushed him from the walls of Winterfell. He wondered how much blood a family could spill before the gods were satisfied.

“Skinchangers are only old wives tales!”

“The Wildlings fight with them!”

“The Wildlings are godless heathens!”

“Spoken like an ignorant southerner!”

“The only thing north of the wall now is the Army of the Dead!” Edd shouted over all of them. Toad bellowed for silence. “We’ve seen it,” Edd went on, “those of us who were at the Fist of the First Men and at Hardhome. We’ve seen it, but not all of us have been there.” He fixed a baleful eye upon Thorn and Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. “You have not seen what’s out there, you have not seen the true North, and you do not know what’s coming for us all. And you killed the one man who had a chance in all Seven Hells of preparing us to face it.” His voice rose until he was shouting.

“You stupid fuckers!” he roared. The men nearest him flinched.

“Seize them,” he ordered, reaching out to grab Thorn himself. “Seize anyone Ghost points out and lock them in the cells. You!” he pointed at the young, brown-haired man who had spoken of the dead King in the North. “And Satine. Bring the Commander’s body to Maester Aemon’s old rooms. Send a messenger for Maester Torwick from East End. He’s currently inspecting Queensguard, and can be here in several hours. The Commander’s body needs to be prepared.”

Starks were buried in the Earth beneath Winterfell, Edd knew, but Jon Snow had been a bastard and a brother of the Night’s Watch. The Black Brothers burned their dead, like the Wildlings they had fought for thousands of years.

Edd pushed and shoved Alliser Thorne before him, down into the tunnels beneath Castle Black, and three him into a cell. The tall old knight cursed him, and spat at him. “You’ll rue this day, Tollett!”

“I rue every day,” Edd told him. “And every day I continue to see your traitor’s face, I’ll rue it even more.”

Fighting broke out in the courtyard above him. Edd heard dim noises of shouts and screams, the clash of steel, and above that, the howls of Ghost. By the time he reached the courtyard, a dozen men lay dead and several others were wounded. Davos Seaworth limped towards him. “Several of the men tried to fight their way out,” he explained, and Edd nodded. He wondered if he should have expected that, and if so, what he could have done to prevent it.

Toad was one of those who had been slain by his brothers.

Seaworth leaned closer to him. “You’ll lose more men soon, if you don’t take control.”

“And how do you suggest I do that,” Edd said, sarcastically. “Like as not we’ll all get murdered in our beds tonight.” But he raised his voice and started insulting all the men, cajoling, weedling, talking about their imminent death at the hands of the White Walkers, or the Wildlings, or the Boltons, or even each other, forcin Hobb back to his kitchens, assigned the new man, Gendry, to the forges after he had moved Jon’s body, because the man said he had some skill with iron and steel. He harangued and yell at all the men until they helped him carry all the newly dead to lie in the barracks, which were empty.

And listen to him they did. Maybe it was because they were all tired and afraid, and he was loud. Maybe it was because he had been Jon’s friend. Maybe it was because Ghost stalked by his side, refusing to leave him, and Davos Seaworth enforced his orders without question. But listen to him they did. The rangers even went north to collect wood from the Haunted Forest for the bonfires of the dead. 

That night the Officer’s table was empty, and Edd ate at his usual spot, with Gendry on one side and Davos Seaworth on the other. Of the Red Sorceress, there had been no sign for days, not since she had returned to the Wall prior to word of Stannis Baratheon’s defeat at Winterfell.

Men had been trickling back to the Wall in ones and twos since then – soldiers and Free Swords in Stannis’ army. They had no where else to go. The only king left was Tommen Baratheon, but House Lannister was thousands of leagues away, and not likely to pardon them. They were surrounded by hostile Bolton men to the South, the Greyjoys to the west, and unfriendly Northern lords everywhere else. The ships Stannis had borrowed from Braavos had long since departed. Stannis had meant to return home by way of the King’s Road and King’s Landing, as the sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms. And now no one would go home.

Near 500 had made it back to the Wall, almost all on foot. They seemed content for the moment to obey Davos’ orders, but some of their few lords were looking mutinous, and Edd knew that Jon had planned to do something with them, and soon. And now, so must he.

Hobb gad made a plain meal today, out of respect for the dead, but it was still nourishing; beef stew with carrots and potatoes, thick slices of black rye bread, and fried fish, which caused his mouth to water.

Probably his last meal. ‘Hobb’s feeding us up for the slaughter,’ he thought, but miraculously managed not to say it. Ghost had finally left him, and was keeping silent vigil by Jon’s side. Edd eyed the division between the paltry remnants of the Night’s Watch and the Baratheon soldiers with annoyance before turning to the young man besides him.

“Gendry, is it?”

Gendry abruptly stopped eating like a starving man, and Davos, on his other side, snorted.

Edd looked suspiciously between them for a moment. “Where are you from, Gendry?” He watched the stranger carefully.

“King’s Landing, originally,” the boy-man said, carefully. “I was part of the party that left the City just after the Hand – Lord Stark – Lord Eddard Stark, was beheaded.”

“We heard that Yoren was dead,” Edd said. Gendry explained how he had died, and most of the recruits with him. Then, he said, he’d hid in the Riverlands awhile before making his way North via White Harbor and House Manderly. “I heard that the Manderlys were friends of the Watch, and very loyal to the Starks, so I figured they would help.”

“Heard from whom?” Edd asked, suspiciously.

Gendry shrugged. “People. Just people. I’ve no love for the Starks, but they always supported the Watch and….I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Davos was studiously not looking at either of them, his salty, craggy face attempting nonchalance, and Edd knew he was missing something, but couldn’t see what. “And you were trained in King’s Landing?”

“Yes, by Master Mut, a famous armorer.”

“No family?”

“Mother’s dead. I never knew my father, but I heard he’s dead too.”

Seaworth looked like he was fighting back another snort. Edd decided he was really better off not knowing. “Well, you’re in the forge since Noye is dead. It’s not as grand as being a master armorer, but whatever you’re running from won’t be as bad as the White Walkers, so you’ll feel positively safe here.”

The only request Gendry made, was to never be in the presence of the Red Woman, he had as strong mislike of magic. Edd didn’t tell him that magic was everywhere.

Gendry cleared his throat. “That beast, the direwolf?” 

“Yes?” Edd said, warily..

“All the Starks had one?” The young man sounded wondering and slightly fearful.

Edd frowned. “Jon told me there were six, one for each of his brothers and sisters, and him. But that was a long time ago, now.” He stood up from the bend and gave up on his attempt to soften his words, even for new recruits. The world was about to end, and he had no time for stupidity. “The world is full of magic, recruit. Best you get used to it or you won’t be able to tell the good kind from the bad.”

The strange thing, Edd thought the next day, was how many of them seemed to turn to him for leadership. He was nothing – merely a steward, merely one of Jon Snow’s friends – one of the only ones still left at the Wall.

But whatever it was that made some men follow blindly while others refused to follow anyone at all, that spirit divided the Night’s Watch still. They needed to be reminded of their purpose, and they needed more help.

“Thieves, murderers, beggars and whores,” he muttered to himself, as he sorted through Jon’s paperwork. “Ay, we’ve got ourselves a proper army here.” Jon’s handwriting was as neat and precise as the man had been, and Edd had no trouble reading it. He flipped through them, noting plans for manning several of the other castles by using the Wildlings under Night’s Watch Commanders. There were contingency plans if Stannis won the North or if Roose Bolton did. There were records on how to rebuild parts of the Wall and rotation lists for clearing the Forest away at the base, as well as a draft of a letter requesting more men – the defeated and injured and those who were said to have committed treason – from each of the lords of the Realm, great and small. One paper even suggested using the people fleeing north from the Boltons and from the destruction of the Riverlands to repopulate the Gift – well away from Wildlings.

Edd noticed his name on one of the papers, as the top contender for head steward of the Castles – Long Barrow – under Commander Iron Emmett. Iron Emmett had gone with Jon and Edd to Hardhome, he was a good man, and he would have to be, because Jon had planned to put the two of them in charge of the Spearwives, the women who fought in Mance Raydar’s army.

Edd didn’t know whether to be gatified or annoyed by the fact that Jon thought – knew – he wouldn’t attempt to take advantage of those women; that instead he’d treat them just like the men.

“All those women and I couldn’t touch a single one,” Edd grumbed, “that’s just my luck. What’s more, I probably wouldn’t want to touch one; they’d cut my fingers off and pull my eyeballs out and make a stew with it. Which they’d make me eat. If only old Uncle Allard could see me now, that rotten bastard. Rising up in the ranks – well, I was at least. May an Other take the old bastard. And Alliser Thorne too.”

At last he found what he was looking for and left the Lord Commander’s tower. He strode across the empty courtyard, feeling eyes upon him. Looking up, he spied a flickering light in the run-down tower and spied the Red Priestess staring down at him. Even from here her gaze made him feel like ants were crawling all over him, and he hastily averted his eyes.

The day was cold and clear, with the smell of snow on the breeze. The smoke from the kitchens rose up, black and smelling of venison – in honor of the Lord Commander’s funeral.

Jon Snow would be burned this afternoon, along with the other dead brothers, following the ancient traditions of the Watch.

But the morning was reserved for justice, or what little of it could be found in this rotten world, and Edd had realized as he’d stood over Jon’s body, that no one was left to carry it out but him. He thought about sending a raven after Samwell Tarly, calling him back to the Wall, but Jon and Sam were right; the Watch needed a Master at Castle Black now that wise old Maester Aemon had died. They needed a Maester more than they needed Samwell Tarly.

Edd just didn’t feel like he was cut out to be doing any deep thinking, and deep thinking, he feared, was needed at the moment.

Edd strode through the door to the eating hall, making sure to bang the door as he entered. The men – both Baratheon and Night’s Watch – quieted at once. Hobb and old Dywen sat at the High Table like he had asked. Edd went a stood at the place between them; the place where Jon should be standing. Edd drew the Lord Commander’s valyrian steel blade, Longclaw, and laid the gleaming, naked blade before him on the bare table. 

He turned to the Baratheon men. Most looked beaten and defeated. Many were still wounded, or gaunt from the unfamiliar, treacherous march back to Castle Black when winter was coming, and the winds howled down from beyond the Walll.

“Baratheon men,” he began, attempting to sound authoritative. “You have a choice before you, and one that must be made today. You are not the Night’s Watch, and therefore we can no longer feed and harbor you at the Wall; Winter is Coming. If you choose to remain loyal to House Baratheon, or your own lords, you must depart on the morrow. But you will be crossing hostile Bolton lands, and after that the war-torn Riverlands. Your ships have all returned to Braavos; you cannot return by Sea. I wouldn’t relish your chances of making it back to the Stormlands alive. Or you can take the black and fight with us.”

Edd looked around and knew that the Baratheon men didn’t like either option, as he and Dywen and Hobb and several other long-time watchmen had discussed several hours before.

“Or”-

Edd took a breath to give them a moment to process their choices. Davos Seaworth had been a part of their discussions as well, and it was he who had come up with the proposal they had all agreed was their best option. 

“Well, times are changing, aren’t they? The Seven Kingdoms are torn apart, dead men don’t stay dead but rise up to kill us, and we fight with the Wildlings now – against something that wants to kill us all. If the Night’s Watch can work with our sworn enemy for the good of the realm-” Edd continued, loudly, over the muttering and grumbling from the men in black. “-we can work with you. Pledge your allegiance to the Watch, to the North, and when this war is done – the real war – and if we’re not all dead, you will be free to return to your homes in the south and across the Narrow Sea, or wherever you want to go, once more. But if you say yes, you will be under our commanders.  
“The Night’s Watch are fighting to protect all men, and all realms. If we fail, you won’t have any homes to go back to.”

He sat down.

Edd knew that the Wall needed men, as many men as they could get – from wherever they could get them. Jon Snow had been right about that.

The men still seemed undecided so Edd spoke again. “Yes, I know, we were all born in the wrong time and we’ve gotten stuck with the shit. Personally, I never expected it to be any other way. But if we don’t want to be running around and killing people even when we’re dead, then we need to fight; we need every man to fight. So it’s in your own best interest to join us.”

Some of the men took their chances going south, but the vast majority, including the Storm lords who were left, and even some of the Queen’s Men, stayed and swore loyalty to the Watch. Edd and Dywen, Hobb and Alan of Rosby, Ulmar, Sweet Donel and Davos Seaworth, were chosen as executioners.

“We do this the way of the old gods and the North,” Edd told them, and he beheaded Alliser Thorne himself, with Jon’s sword, Longclaw. “It’s better than you deserve,” he told the man.

“I’ll come back as a wight and kill you, Tollett,” Thorne swore, and Edd felt no need to tell him that they’d be burning his body with the rest, and not leaving him for the crows as some of the men had suggested.

Olly was executed by Dywen. “A boy who plans a murder is no boy at all,” the old forester said, “but a man who made his own choices and must now pay the price for them.” Edd forced himself to look, to watch through everything. ‘I’ve seen far worse,’ he told himself.

They burned the traitors separately, and no words were said over them. Maester Torwick arrived with Thormund Giantsbane and Sigorn, the new Master of Thenn. Edd thought that it was a good thing they had already executed the traitors for the fury on Thormund’s face at the sight of Jon’s still body was terrible to behold, and the Night’s Watch, for the first time, realized that the Wildling Chieftain had considered Jon a friend, that he had actually been loyal to their Lord Commander.

The flames had taken Toad and the others, by the time Maester Torwick spoke the words of Jon. “…..And now his watch is ended.”

The Red Priestess, her face a gaunt, white mask lit by burning red eyes, watched distantly next to Davos Seaworth as the first flames roared up around Jon Snow’s pyre. Ghost, the pure-white direwolf with eyes even redder than Melisandre’s started howling.

And then there was a scream, a woman’s scream, from the opening gate of Castle Black. A young woman, Edd saw, on a tired horse, next to a hunched, dirty man with his arm in a sling, and a cast around one leg.

The young woman was lovely and tall, with auburn hair, but her eyes were wild with fear and grief. She threw herself off her horse, and ran towards them. The direwolf loped towards her.

“Get away from him,” she screamed at them. “What are you doing?! Get away from my brother!”

&……&……&……&……&……&

The next chapter will be from Sansa’s point of view. This story will also feature Brienne, Alys Karstark, Asha Greyjoy and the Kingsmoot, Wylla Manderly, the Mormonts, the rest of the Northern Army, and as many characters as I can add.


	2. Sansa

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. I’m going to try my hardest to finish this story before Season 6 comes out in the spring. So far it looks like a chapter a week, although if the inspiration strikes and I have the time, I’ll try and write more. Reviews make me write faster!

&……&……&……&……&……&

Sansa

&..&..&

Sansa’s bastard brother, Jon Snow, was older than she remembered. He had still been a boy when they had left Winterfell, but the last roundness of youth had faded from him. The man who lay before her in the flames was lean and sharp-angled, with long hair that hovered just this side of black, a thin beard, and a striking beauty to him. Sansa had never thought much of any of her brothers’ looks, but now she could see the fairness to him. He bore such a strong resemblance to their Lord Father and Uncle Benjen that Sansa felt a pang in her heart. 

She wondered if Arya would look like Jon now, a fairness to her features that the child-Arya had lacked.

If she wasn’t dead by now.

Ghost was circling around her silent, barring his teeth. The direwolf was huge, bigger than Sansa had imagined, still pure snowy-white, with eyes like burning embers.

Grim-faced men in worn-black wools and leathers groped around the burning pyres. Some of them were shouting at her, but Sansa didn’t hear what they said, and she didn’t stop running. Two more steps and she would – 

A short, dour-faced man in black grabbed her back from the flames.

“My lady, no!” he cried. Sansa struggled against him but the man was strong, ad Jon was burning, Jon was burning…

“Let me go,” she screamed at him. “He’s burning!”

“He’s dead, my lady, he’s dead!”

A craggy-faced man dressed in plain but serviceable greys and blues, with a fiery heart upon his chest, was moving forward to help the black brothers and restrain Sansa, but by then Theon was there. His broken leg had prevented him from running after her, but now he tumbled off his horse, crashing into Sansa and the black brother holding her.  
All three of them fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and – in the black brother’s case – cursing. 

Sansa wiggled free and then she was up again. A big man dressed in furs, with brigh red haird, stood in front of her.

“Lass,” he began, holding out a placating hand, but Sansa darted around him, whipped off her heavy cloak, and threw it over the nearest flames that lapped the base of Jon’s pyre. Luckily the wood was so wet from the briskly falling snow, that there was more smoke than flame.

She threw herself onto the pyre, grabbed her brother under the arms, and tried to haul him up and off with her, but his leather and armor, weighed down by the wet snow seeping into it, made him too heavy to lift over the point, clinging branches of wood.

Ghost leaped up beside her and began to tug at Jon’s leg with his teeth. “Ghost, stop!” Sansa cried. He would rip into Jon’s skin before the body would move. She realized she was crying, as much from grief as from frustration. Her tears fell on her brother’s cheeks, mingling with the soot from the smoke of the fire.

Snow fell all around and on top of them. Sansa gritted her teeth, hoisted as much of Jon as she could onto her back, and gave a mighty tug. He moved, but not enough.

And then hands were reaching out towards her, but not to stop her as she had feared. Instead, one black brother with silky black hair was dousing the flames with water, while the red-haired man and another black brother, grabbed hold of Jon and together, the three of them rolled Jon over into the muddy snow beneath the pyres. 

Sansa fell on her knees in the mud and placed Jon’s head in her lap. Her tears continued to fall upon him as she clutched her big brother to her, the smoke and the flames from the many funeral fires rising up to the grey sky above them.

Ghost lay down next to her, his head resting on her knee, and Sansa reached out a hand to run it soothing over and through his fur.

“Wolf-girl,” she head the whisper, and “skin-changer.”

She looked up to find several hundred men watching her, their faces blank and gaunt and strange. Most, she now realized, were not even in the all-black garb of the Night’s Watch, but were instead sporting the flaming heart sigil of Stannis Baratheon. But Sansa did not see the Baratheon king of Dragonstone, and wondered if he had fallen at the hands of Ramsay Snow – now Bolton; her husband.

She clutched Jon a little tighter to her, attempting to smooth his now-matted and wet hair. The Bastard of Bolton would track her here soon enough, if he wasn’t on his way already. She had thought she was putting Jon in terrible danger by coming here, but now she saw that danger had already found him, just like her dream had whispered to her.

“How did this happen?”

She tried to make her voice sound as calm and gentle as her lady mother’s, but she heard the quaver in it all the same. ‘I am steel,’ she told herself. ‘I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am the blood of the North and the First Men. I will not break, not even now.’

“Who killed my brother,” she said again, hearing the anger in her words. Ghost picked up his head and fixed the circling men with his red eyes, and Sansa hoped that his presence made her look less like a young woman, and more like a fierce wolf-woman, like the sister of the king men had called the Young Wolf.

She gave them a haughty, commanding look such as Cersei Lannister would have worn, and made her voice snap out like a whip, this time. 

“Why is Lord Commander Jon Snow dead and yet you all still live?”

The men almost seemed to shuffle in place, but others had faces that looked at her with unfriendly eyes. These were hard men, she realized, men who had seen too much of death and suffering, and would think nothing of bringing about more of the same.

‘Killers,’ Sandor Clegane had called all men, but Sansa would not believe that. Not, at least, of her brother. Jon Snow might killer, just as Robb had, but at heart she knew he was a good man, a man like their lord father, who had never delighted in the death of others.

“There was a … muting, Lady Stark.” The dour-faced black brother had a cut on his cheek, but he was helping Theon Greyjoy hobble over to her side.

“And you are?” Sansa demanded bluntly, as Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, would have done.

“Eddison Tollett, my lady. I was…am…..a steward in the Watch. I knew Jon – your brother – well.”

“And yet you let him die from this mutiny. Where are these traitors? Were you one of them?” Sansa did not think so for Ghost seemed to like the black brother. Instead, Ghost had fixed his unsettling gaze on Theon. 

Sansa placed a gentling hand on the direwolf’s head. “Theon is our friend and champion now, Ghost,” she told him. “He helped me to escape Winterfell.”

‘And he didn’t kill Bran or Rickon,’ she added silently. She had wanted to tell Jon this, tell him that there was still hope they were alive. She had wanted to tell him that there was still hope for Arya as well.

‘But he killed two innocent farm boys,’ said an inner voice that sounded a lot like her sister. ‘He attacked Winterfell, and killed Mikken and Ser Rodrik, and he betrayed Robb. He should have died with Robb; they were brothers. He should be dead now.’

‘He deserves another chance, surely,’ she told the voice and it fell silent, but Sansa wondered if she was being stupid and naïve, as she had so many times before. “Stupid,” Cersei had called her, and “little bird,” the Hound had said. 

“The traitors attacked him in the night,” spat an old black brother, with a face like a gnarled tree trunk, and rotten teeth, “but we killed them. To the last man.”

“And where was his protection? His bodyguards?” A Lord needed loyal men around him. She knew she was one to talk though. Here she was, Lady Stark of Winterfell, running around the war-torn North with only an injured, mentally-broken, former traitor as any kind of protection. She was very doubtful that Theon could use a sword or bow anymore; Ramsay would have trained him out of it.

A deep, mellifluous woman’s voice spoke up. “I told him a Lord Commander needed guards, but he did not listen to me.” 

The voice had a strange accent. Sansa looked for the speaker, and a very tall, very beautiful woman came into view. She was dressed all in red, with skin as pale as ivory, and hair and eyes the dark-red color of dying embers. Around her white throat was a ruby as big as a chicken’s egg, which glittered in the light from the fire.

But despite her beauty, Sansa noticed that the woman appeared faintly unwell. There was a dead look in her eyes and voice, and a gaunt cast to her face. She thought that this must be Lord Stannis’ fire priestess. Sansa tried to remember her name. She had hear Lord Baelish speak of her once.

“Lady Melisandre of Asshai,” Sansa said. Courtesy was a lady’s armor, and was something she had learned from her mother.

The foreign priestess had been staring at Jon with a strange look on her face, but now she blinked at Sansa in some surprise.

“How do you know of me, child?” she asked in her melodious voice.

Sansa felt a stab of annoyance at being so addressed. “Lady Stark,” she corrected, sharply. “The blood of the Kings of Winter and the First Men flow in my veins.” She raised her chin fiercely. “And I was in King’s Landing when your king attacked it and would have raped or murdered every man, woman, and child within its walls as a sacrifice to your Red God.”

“There is only one God, and he is the God of us all,” Melisandre said, in the tones of a fanatic. Sansa had seen that gleam all too often in Littlefinger’s eyes.

“Only we were saved by my first husband, Tyrion Lannister,” Sansa finished fiercely. She had decided whilst married to Ramsay Snow, that Lord Tyrion deserved all the good reports of his deeds that she could spread. 

“The imp,” someone among the Baratheons said derogatorily. 

“It would have been for the greater good,” the Red Priestess explained, but to Samsa her voice didn’t sound entirely certain.

“Whose greater good?” Sansa demanded. “Surely not that of the people who died because of you. How do you measure your greater good anyway? Who do you excluded? Anyone who gets in your way?” She glared fiercely at this strange woman. Her first husband had not liked her, she knew, and men whispered that she sacrificed king’s blood and those with king’s blood to create monsters.

The fur-garbed, red-haired man laughed. “She’s definitely Jon Snow’s sister,” and Sansa, who would have bristled and turned icy cold at such a comparison when she was a girl, looked down at her brother’s still form. She felt the slightest glow of pride. The big man knelt down before her. He looked for a moment like he wanted to reach out and place a hand on her shoulder, but Theon spoke.

“Do not touch her.”

The big man’s eyes flickered from Theon’s to hers. “Little lordlings,” he said with contempt. “My name is Thormund. Men call me Giantsbane because…”

Another man groaned. “Shut your gob, Thormund. The girl does not need your boasting at a time like this.”

“I am Sansa Stark, not girl.” She looked at their strange clothing and fierce faces. These two men did not look like any others she had ever seen, yet they spoke with thick northern accents. Even Sansa, prisoner of the Boltons though she had been, had heard that the Night’s Watch had allied with the Wildlings. “You’re from beyond the Wall,” she said, wondering. “Wildings.”

“Free Folk,” the other Wildling chief corrected her.

“Free Folk,” the big man called Thormund agreed. He looked from Sansa to Jon Snow and then back again. “Sansa Stark,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could manage, “I had no love for you Uncle, or your Father, but Jon Snow was a good lad. I know you have lost many of your family, and I know this is hard to accept, but your brother is dead.”

Sansa gazed back at him calmly. “Thormund Giantsbane,” she returned, “no he is not.”

Most of the men looked dubious, but a young man who looked startlingly like Renly Baratheon – the one who had helped her drag Jon off his funeral pyre – gave an uneasy glance towards Lady Melisandre. “She could bring him back,” he muttered, almost slurring his words in his haste to get them all out as fast as possible. Then he shifted so several of the black brothers shielded him from her view. 

The Red Priestess looked askance at Jon’s body. “The fires of R’hllor could bring him back,” she acknowledged in dulcet, husky tones, “but the dead are not as they were in life. They are less than were and have forgotten how to truly live. The purpose they died with is usually what drives them when they become undead. It would be kinder to give Jon Snow to the fire, not to put the fire back in him.”

A craggy, weather-beaten an with an honest face and hard eyes snorted at these words, giving Lady Melisandre an unfriendly look. “Ay, you’re a fine one for doing the kind thing, my lady,” he said sarcastically, “sacrificing children to your Red God; pushing the king on with visions you saw in the fire, and for what? Stannis is lost, and the Realm with him.”

The man was close to shouting and closer to some great emotion, and many of the Baratheon men looked to agree with him, but the woman all in red remained unmoved. “What I did, I did for us all. The Great Battle still lies before us, but I read the flames incorrectly. Stannis Baratheon was not Azor Ahai reborn, or the death of his daughter would have given him victory. There is power in king’s blood, Onion Knight, you have seen this.”

Her words, though meant to be calming, had the opposite effect on this Onion Knight. Sansa remembered the Court at King’s Landing mocking Stannis Baratheon’s choice for Hand as low-born, a smuggler whom they call the Onion Knight in derision, and realized this man must be Ser Davos Seaworth. Ser Davos turned a sickly grey at Melisandre’s words. “What did you say?” The words were choked out and desperate.

The young man who was avoiding the Red Woman’s gaze spoke up angrily. “She burned my sister alive, is what she’s sayin’ All the men are talking about it, and none wanted to tell you. She burned Princess Shireen alive and the queen hanged herself because of it.”

Melisandre’s head snapped around. “Gendry Storm,” she said, and made to start for him, a strange glean in her ruby-red eyes. With a growl of rage, Ser Davos charged her, wrapping one big hand around her throat. He threw the woman to the ground and drew his sword as other Baratheon men moved forward to stop him, while still others started shouting and threatening in his defense. But they would not be in time.

“Witch,” the Onion Knight cried. “Child murderer!” His sword started downwards.

“No!” cried Sansa. She had no idea how to save Jon, but if this Red Woman could bring the dead back, then Sansa needed her alive. They had whispered in the Red Keep that Lord Beric Dondarrion could not die, not so long as Thoros of Myr was with him, and Melisandre was of the same faith. “Ghost!” she shouted, “stop him!”

The huge, white direwolf bounded over to Ser Davos and Melisandre. He leapt at the King’s Hand, bearing him down to the ground without hurt, and snatching his sword with great sharp teeth. The Night’s Watch man, Eddison Tollett, drew his own sword and pointed it at Melisandre. “Get up,” he commanded her, in a cold, hard voice.

“What do you want to do with her, Lady Stark,” Steward Tollett asked Sansa.

“We should kill her,” Gendry Storm said, Baratheon fury in his voice for all that he was a bastard.

“First,” Sansa said softly, in a quiet voice she had learned from Roose Bolton, and which caused men to quiet down and lean forward to hear her, “she is going to bring my brother back.” Jon might be a bastard, but he was her blood, her father’s blood. He was not treacherous and false like Ramsay Snow, now Bolton, had been. He was her family. He was the only family she had seen in so many, many years. 

And she would not let him leave her now. Not when she was finally here.

“What are you going to do?” Theon Greyjoy asked her.

“What the deam told me to do,” she told him. Then she raised her voice. “The weirwoods north of the Wall where the Night’s Watch men take their vows if they follow the old gods?” She waited for the nod that bespoke they knew the place.” Bring Jon and the Red Priestess there.”

“It ain’t natural, the dead coming back and all,” and old man muttered, but they moved to do as she bid them.

The dream had come to both Theon and Sansa as they slept beneath a Heart tree in the Wolfswood two days into their flight from Winterfell. They had both been injured, Theon moreso than Sansa, and the going had been slow. A cold wind had been blowing down from the North, the snows were falling and stinging their faces, and the excruciating slowness of their pace had only caused their fear at capture to grow until Sansa’s heart was pounding and she was flinching at every sound.

Sansa’s face and lips were chapped, her leg throbbed from where she had landed roughly on it, and on the first night she had bled heavily from her woman’s area. She had in fact bled so heavily that she had thought she might die, out there in the snows around Winterfell, and Theon had been frantic and useless in his panic.

But she had lived.

She had lived knowing that her baby had died. She had not known that she was pregnant with Ramsay Snow’s heir, but she wasn’t surprised. What did surprise her was the hollow feeling she felt at the loss of the child. She had hated the Boltons and Ramsay most of all with her entire being. She could never look at them without seeing Robb and Grey Wind, her mother, and all the laughing, kind people at Winterfell who were gone now, dead or scattered thanks to the lords of the Dreadfort.

But the child was Stark as well as Bolton, and it was hers. And she had loved it even though she had never known it was there until it was too late.

Sansa had cried that second night, as she lay unsleeping beneath the Heart tree, Theon’s snores beside her, and a canopy of red leaves all that kept the worst of the snows off her. She had not thought that she could cry anymore, but cry she did and in her dreams the Weirwood tree too on her brother, Bran’s face and it comforted her.

“Sansa, you must go North,” tree-Bran told her, his hair made of bark and his eyes strangely red from the sap. “Jon. You have to save Jon.” And he showed her their brother all in black, lying cold and still in the dark and the snow, as his eyes grey blank and dead, and the blood seeped out, black in the moonlight.

‘What have we done,’ Sansa wanted to cry to the Mother, to the Crone, to the Stranger. ‘What has my family done, to make the gods hate us so.’ But there would be no answer; there was never any answer.

“What must I do?” she cried, to her brother instead.

“Save him,” tree-Bran said, only now he was a crow, a three-eyed crow, cawing at her. “Bring him back to us, we need him,” the crow cawed. “Starks are hard to kill. He still lives.”  
“How?” Sansa begged. If she had known hot to bring the dead back, their father and mother, Robb and Septa Mordane, kind Maester Luwin, Jory Cassel, brave Ser Rodrik, Mikken and Old Nan, Uncle Benjen, Robb’s queen, and all the people of Winterfell and the Winter Town would be alive again; alive and with her.

“How?” she cried again, but the crow burst into hundreds of ravens flying at her face. Sansa screamed and ducked, and woke up. 

Theon had dreamed of a Bran-tree as well. It had whispered to him to take Sansa to Castle Black, but that was all. As they made their slow way north, away from their original course of making for the Umbers, Sansa reflected that wherever Bran was, he was still an annoying little brother, who was playing monsters-and-maidens with her, and was no help at all – even if he was now a tree.

“He’s not dead. Jon’s not dead,” she chanted to herself, over and over as the Night’s Watch brought out a flat byre from a tower they named the King’s Tower, placed Jon upon it, and waited until the iron gates beneath the great iced wall were winced slowly upwards. The snow was falling more heavily now and the sky was the dark, heavy grey that reminded Sansa of late summer thunderstorms.

Theon had been sent to the kitchens with a man called Three-Finger Hobb. The bastard Gendry Storm walked beside her as they passed into the darkness under the Wall. Gendry held a burning torch aloft above them.

“Have you heard anything from Arya, my lady?” the black-haired bastard of House Baratheon asked her quietly.

“You knew my sister?” Sansa asked, studying him warily. She had learned well not to trust people who offered her that which she desired most.

“I knew her in the Riverlands, before the Brotherhood Without Banners sold me to the Red Woman and my Uncle Stannis tried to sacrifice me to his Red God,” the young man returned, bitterly.

That seemed to have been after Harrenhal, where Littlefinger told her he had seen Arya dressed as a boy, hiding right under Tywin Lannister’s nose. So Sansa merely said, “No, I have not heard from her,” and tried not to notice how Gendry’s face fell, or her own sick feeling. If Bran had found her through the trees, perhaps he could find Arya as well. Perhaps she still lived……

And perhaps Cersei Lannister would turn into a sweet, kind woman and Roose Bolton would give her her home back. Sansa rolled her eyes at her own folly.

A cold wind howled through the tunnel, whipping her cloak and her heavy woolen skirts. She was at the end of the world, she knew. She remembered Old Nan’s stories from before she had decided she was too old for the old woman’s tales. Beyond the Wall were monsters and giants and ghouls, spiders as big as hounds, and ice demons that came in the night and could not be killed.

But when they finally came out on the other side, all Sansa could see was the driving snow and, just barely visible beyond that, the dark shapes of pine and fir trees that she knew marked the beginning of the Haunted Forest.

Sansa and Eddison Tollett, Gendry Storm and Ser Davos Seaworth, Lady Melisandre of Asshai, and a dozen men of the Night’s Watch, staggered through the snow drifts, some carrying Jon’s byre, as they made for the Haunted Forest and the place where the weirwoods grew. Ghost loped and darted in circles around them, seeming to be happy at the open spaces once more.

As they entered the forest, the driving snow lessened so that Sansa could breathe more easily. There was less snow on the ground as well, and the leaves crunched underfoot as they passed. The old ranger with the rotted teeth, Dywen, led them carefully through the trees. Remnants of the battle between Stannis Baratheon’s and Mance Raydar’s armies could be seen peaking up through the snow, Sansa saw; broken wooden carts, frayed ropes, and burned cloth, but every whole weapon and mildly dented shield had been taken by the victors for they needed every bit of arms and armor they could get their hands on, just like they needed every man.

The men of the Night’s Watch soon came to the Weirwoods where Jon had said his vows. They laid his byre down upon the remnants of an older funeral pyre, although who had been burned there, Sansa could not tell.

Sansa looked at the red faces in the white trees, their features like blood, ancient and cold and uncaring like the stone kings beneath Winterfell’s walls, and she shivered. She wished Bran would speak to her through the trees, but they remained silent and still. The men and the Red Priestess were all looking at her expectantly, but Sansa did not know what to do. 

Ghost came over to her and sat by her feet. Sansa rested a hand on his head and felt comforted, but all of a sudden she missed Lady, her own direwolf, lost so long ago by order of the Queen. If Lady was here, Sansa was sure she’d know what to do. 

“Shall I begin, Sansa Stark?” Melisandre of Asshai asked and Sansa could swear she felt a tremor in the air of the grove when the Priestess spoke. For a split second it looked like the faces in the trees were screaming in horror, but when Sansa blinked and looked again, they were still. She gave the Red Woman an uneasy glance.

“This is a dark, cold place,” Melisandre said, “hated by the Lord of Light, and dark, cold things watch us from these eyes. We should light a fire and drive the darkness away. We should burn these trees down at once, for the Great Other watches our movements and plots against us through them. Fire would thwart him. Fire is goodness and light and life, all the things the Other cannot stand.”

For a moment, for half a heart-beat Sansa considered her words. She had never liked the trees as a girl, and she felt afraid in their presence even now. Maybe they were evil? Maybe her brother Bran was being held by a terrible enemy, worse even than the Boltons or the Lannisters?

But Sansa remembered Sandor Clegane’s burned face and the green flames upon the Blackwater, and knew that fire was death as well as life, just as cold could be, and she remembered Old Nan saying how the Andals and the First Men had feared the trees at first and burned them, but afterwards the Children of the Forest had taught the First Men to love the trees as they did.

“You touch a single tree with any fire, my lady, and I’ll cut that arm off,” Eddison Tollett opined, and old Dywen reached out and snatched the burning brand from Melisandre’s hand.

“You’re in the North now, Melisandre of Asshai, where the old powers are still strong.” It was something she had overheard Roose Bolton saying to Steelshanks, his Captain of the Guard. “In the North you abide by our rules.”

“Ye don’t need fire anyway,” Gendry Storm told the Red Woman. “Thoros of Myr brought back the Lightning Lord with the fire he had inside him, and that was all. Saw it with my own eyes, I did.”

The Red Woman gave him a cool look, but she placed her white hands on Jon’s still chest.

“What if he comes back wrong?” Sansa asked fearfully. “What if he comes back and he’s…..not Jon?”

Some of the men shifted uncomfortably and others darted wary glances at the trees as if they feared that the old gods or the Great Other himself was watching them.

“He would hate that,” the boy, Satine, opined.

“Probably quieter just to stay dead,” Eddison Tollett added. “He’s going to kill us when he comes back. I bet he’s got a nice girl over there – that Wildling girl he loved, the red-head – and we’re dragging him back here again; in the cold and the dark and the enemies coming everywhere. He moodily kicked at some snow.

Sansa was struck by those last words. “What girl?” she asked. Night’s Watch men were supposed to take no wives, weren’t they?

“Ygritte,” Thormund Giantsbane told her. “She was kissed-by-fire, like you are lady.”

Sansa found Thormund studying her with a faint frown upon his face. Sansa shifted in pace and tried to give him a stern look, but in truth the Wildling Chieftain made her almost as uneasy as the priestess of R’hllor. A lady had no business dealing with either.

‘But a queen deals with everyone,’ Littlefinger’s voice came to her. He had wanted to make her Queen in the North and, once, Sansa had wanted that too. She had been young and stupid then, ad she was hardly any wiser now, but dealing with all people seemed to be something she needed to learn to do well. “What is it?” she asked Thormund, as the big man looked between her and Ghost. 

“You have no wolf, lady?” the big man growled.

Sansa pressed her lips together tightly. “My direwolf was killed several years ago now. Why?”

“Jon Snow….” He stopped. “All of you Starks, I’ve heard……” he trailed off again. “I’ve heard it said that you southerners find it strange, that you don’t believe anymore.”

“Believe what?” Sansa asked impatiently. “Thormund Giantsbane, we don’t have time for this.”

“Jon Snow was a skin-changer,” old Dywen told her. Several others nodded.

“What does that mean?” Sansa asked, suddenly afraid again. She had heard them hurling that word at her in the Courtyard of Castle Black, but she had ignored it then. Ignorant men said foolish things, but it didn’t seem so foolish now, beneath the gaze of the weirwood trees.

“You are as well, my lady, most likely,” Eddison Tollett told her quickly, hoping to reassure, but Sansa was not reassured. Skinchangers were horrible monsters in Old Nan’s stories, and Thormund must have seen that fear on her face.

“It’s a rare gift, but it just means that he could dream wolf dreams, and so could you. But you probably have not done so, as your wolf was killed. Skinchangers can inhabit the bodies of animals they are close too, and the really powerful ones could even look through the weirwood trees it was said. But that was many thousands of years ago, during the Long Night.”

The Night’s Watch stared at him. Even Davos Seaworth stared at the big, rough Wildling. He looked uncomfortable. “Mance was a learned man, and your Jon Snow was even worse. They liked to talk at me. I guess some of it stuck.”

Sansa looked at him and remembered Bran’s face in the tree, and her father telling Arya that she had the wolf-blood, and then she looked down at Ghost. The white direwolf looked back up at her, his red eyes fearsome and friendly and calm. Jon had always been quiet and calm, from what she remembered. “Jon?” she whispered to the direwolf, feeling half a fool. The direwolf didn’t answer her, merely cocked his head at the sound of her voice.

“He could be stuck,” Thormund said. “To my knowledge he never knew he was a skinchanger. If he jumped into Ghost automatically, the shock of his death could have caused him to forget he was human. He could be lost inside the direworlf, his own self almost gone.”

Melisandre strode towards them on long legs, bent down and grabbed Ghost by the scruff of his neck, dragging the wolf’s gaze up to meet her own. “If Jon Snow is in the direwolf,” she murmured, “and if we can get him out again, then he should be himself when I return the fire to his mortal form.”

Abruptly she released the direwolf, who hadn’t even snapped at her, and returned to Jon’s byre, placed her hands back on his chest, closed her eyes and began to chant. Her words were strange, Asshai by the sea, guttural and harsh and strong.

“Bring him back, Sansa Stark,” the Red Woman commanded, “Bring him back before it is too late.”

Sansa threw herself to the ground and wrapped her arms as tight as she could around Ghost. She buried her face in his soft fur, and then she began to whisper in his ear. She spoke of Winterfell and their golden childhood, she begged his pardon for treating him coldly, and told him that all she wanted in the world was to feel his arms around her as he hugged her to him.

Once or twice she had let Jon Snow kiss her hand, but he had never hugged her as he had Arya, nor had he ever called her ‘little sister.’

She regretted that now. She regretted a lot of things.

She spoke of Old Nan and Maester Luwin, their father, and Robb – brave, wonderful Robb – who was gone. She spoke of the godswood, and the great feasts, and their Uncle Benjen. She told him of her marriage to the Imp, and then a bit about her time with the Boltons. She told him about Littlefinger and Olenna Tyrell, Cersei Lannister and the Red Viper of Dorne. She told him that Bran and Rickon still lived, that Theon had saved her, and that Arya might not be dead. 

She told him she needed him to come back to her. She needed him by her side.

Sansa could hear voices whispering on the wind; whipping through the grove. Melisandre’s harsh words split the air and shadows danced around them all.

The Night’s Watch stared with wide eyes, and beyond their circle, at the very edge of Sansa’s sight, she could see a man, a tall man dressed all in black with a hood pulled up over his face. He wore no gloves but his hands were as black as the rest of him, and he rode a huge Elk, with antlers the size of dinner platters. She watched him for a moment; watching him watching them.

“Please Jon,” she begged the direwolf, “I know you’re there. I know you haven’t left me too. Please come back to me. Please come back. You are a Stark of Winterfell, and your place is here.”

And then, with a gasp, Jon Snow opened his eyes.

&……&……&……&……&……&

Jon’s POV will come next!


	3. Jon

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews, I really appreciate it. If anyone’s really annoyed by spelling mistakes and continuity errors and wants to beta for me, I would be very grateful. And chapters would come faster! I have made Gendry a Storm and not a Waters because in the show he knows who his father is, and Stannis has claimed him as kin, therefore he’s a Stormlands bastard in this story.

&……&……&……&……&……&

 

Jon

&..&..&  
Jon opened his eyes.

Above him was a canopy of deep red leaves from weirwood trees, and above that, just visible through the leaves, was a dark, slate-grey sky. Snow fell on his upturned face, cold against his skin, and Jon knew this was wrong; this was all wrong.

Why could he not smell his sister; the sad, she-wolf who was supposed to run beside him? Why could he not smell his brothers, dark and cold? Why did his body feel so cumbersome, so awkward? He could hear voices, but they were all wrong. And then a face, a man-face, bent over his. He supposed this she-man was fair for her kind, with eyes the dark red of dying embers, and a pale, heart-shaped face, with hair the color of the weirwood leaves – blood-red.

Jon jumped up, attempted to dart off into the trees, but his legs would not obey him. For some reason this wrong, slow body wanted to run on two legs instead of four. He fell, felt something twist and throb in his weak legs, but then he was up again, running, fleeing for the trees and for freedom. If he could just run, then everything would make sense. Hands reached for him but he twisted away, and voices screamed and shouted, but he couldn’t understand the words; they only made him more afraid.

He just needed to run. If he could run then he would be free; he wouldn’t have to remember, to remember…

Someone stepped right into his path, too close, and Jon could not turn away in time, or halt his clumsy legs. He stumbled, the person reached out a hand to stop his fall, and then they were falling into the snow together, Jon landing heavily on the person, who was soft and warm, and who gave a sharp, bark-like laugh. “Jon Snow,” the woman said, for it was a woman, a woman with red hair, “you’re heavier than you look.” But she made no move to push him off her. Instead, she wrapped her arms tight around him and buried her face against his neck.

‘Ygritte,’ he thought for one, heart-stopping moment, and memories rushed back at him, of snarky words, and warm smiles, a fierce determination in eye like an artic sky, and hair like the leaping flames at the edge of a fire, as bright and wonderful at the rest of her. But in another moment it was gone.

‘Ygritte is dead,’ he told himself. ‘And you are dead; the entire world is field with dead people, and the dead are trying to kill us all the same. So don’t think, don’t think. That way lies madness.’

But it seemed to him that a different sort of madness lay before him because the last thing he remembered was the dark and the cold, and the pain of the blades as his brothers stabbed him in the night. ‘Traitor,’ they’d called him, and traitor he felt, for now he was warm and hair like fire tickled his nose as the woman hugged him. And it seemed he knew her, although he could not remember. “Winterfell,” the trees seemed to whisper through the rustle of leaves. “Remember Winterfell.”

“Jon,” she whispered, “you’re alright. You’re back. Bran said to save you, and I did. You’re alright now.”

Jon pushed back a bit, attempted to sit back on his haunches. She let go of him, but only reluctantly, and watched him anxiously as he stared at her. The woman was tall, Jon could see that even though she was sitting in a snow drift. She was young and beautiful and her hair was auburn, but not the leaping flames of Ygritter’s, nor the dark embers of the Red Woman standing on the other side of the clearing. This young woman’s hair was mixed with red-gold, like the heart of the flame, cooler but more constant than the flickering edge. She looked startlingly like her mother, but even more beautiful than Lady Catelyn Stark had ever been, and there was something of the North in her now; some strength and some stillness that had not been there the last time had had seen her.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice a harsh croak. There were tears glittering in her Tully-blue eyes, which made them look almost as silver-grey as a Stark’s. She nodded, her red-hair shaking out snow, and held so still as he reached out a hand and gently placed it against her cold, pink cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed then; in relief, in joy, in fear, Jon could not tell. Jon felt the eyes of his brothers, of the Red Woman, watching them, but none of them spoke, and the only sounds were the whispering of wind through leaves, the howl of a wolf far away, and Sansa’s quick breathing. 

Then, with a soft cry, she opened her eyes and threw herself at him. His arms came up around her this time, and Jon Snow hugged his sister to him.

Over her shoulder, far off beneath the pines and heavy ash of the Haunted Forest, Jon saw the flash of black. Ghost’s ears pricked up, and Jon felt his own, no longer wolf, ears twitch as well. There was movement as though of hug antlers, and a hint of black amidst the red and green and white.

Jon remembered Sam telling him of the strange Night’s Watch brother he and Gilly had named Coldhands. Coldhands had saved them from the wights, but could not cross the threshold of the hidden door in the Wall to enter the Nightfort, and his hands had been as black and frozen as ice.

But in the next instant Coldhands, of it had indeed been him, was gone, and there was nothing left but the fluttering of leaves.

And footprints…

“Lord Commander,” growled old Dywen.

“Jon,” Edd began, coming up to stand beside the Starks.

Jon gently pulled away from Sansa, getting slowly to his feet, and tugging her up after him. The leg he’d twisted while he had still thought he was Ghost, throbbed like fire beneath him, and let him know he was alive. Tormund Giantsbane reached out a hand as though to lend assistance, but Jon shook his head. He could manage.

Lightly he kissed Sansa on the cheek, the same cheek he had touched. “Thank you, sister,” he told her quietly. He kept hold of her hand as he limped off into the trees. The others followed him.

There in the snow, just as he had half-expected were the tracks of a giant animal, and even the smaller prints of a man, a man with good boots.

Old Dywen knelt down and put one gnarled finger in the animal prints. “Elk,” he said, sounding surprised. “A big one from the looks of it.”

“Yes, but was it dead or alive, Dywen, eh?” came Dolorous Edd’s voice, as dolorous as ever. “That’s what we need to know, or we won’t know whether to run or not.”

Once Jon might have smiled at the dry humor; Edd had a quip for everything, even certain death. But there was a cold in him now, a cold in his bones, and nothing seemed funny anymore. Winer was coming; it was upon them and they were not ready. His hands tightened on Sansa’s seeking her warmth. She entwined their fingers and he looked north, trying to see through the trees and over the long miles of frozen rivers and icy plains, past deep, dark caves and the empty villages of the Wildlings. 

The White Walkers were coming; they were almost upon them, and the only thing that protected the world of men was the Wall. But for how long could even the Wall stand against creatures that could not be killed? How long could something as strong and old and powerful as the Wall last against the ice demons from the north?

‘You know nothing, Jon Snow,’ whispered Ygritte. 

Jon did not know, and because he did not know, he could not rest yet.

“Alive, I think,” Jon told them, his voice still a rough rasp. “The man has good boots.” 

Edd looked at him quickly, not sure whether he was joking, but Jon did not meet his eyes. 

“Come, let’s go back,” the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch told his men. And all the others.

Jon had to lean heavily on Sansa the further they walked, but he refused the offer from Edd to return to the byre. The Red Woman came up on his other side. She had been strangely silent since he had….come back. 

‘Don’t think,’ he reminded himself. ‘That way lies madness.’

Now she studied his face, her eyes dark and contemplative, before reaching out and rubbing one long, white finger down his cheek, through the soot from the funeral fires and through the remnants of the wetness of snow and Sansa’s tears.

Jon pulled away from her violently; her touch now felt burning hot to him. She did not appear to notice his reaction, or perhaps she merely ignored it, as she studied her blackened finger with something approaching fear. “Born amidst salt a smoke.”

Her unsettling gaze came up and pinned Jon. “Who are you?” she demanded.

‘A bastard,’ Jon thought, ‘a traitor. Faithless, friendless, and accursed.’ 

“I am Ned Stark’s son,” he told her, stiffly.

“Who was your mother?” Jon pressed his lips together and did not answer her.

“Our father did not say,” Sansa said, fixing the Priestess with a cool glance. “He did not want to shame my mother.”

A tall, thick-set young man with brown, unruly hair spoke up from his place beside old Dywen. “An Edric Storm told your sister Arya that you and he were milk-brothers.” He had a stubborn face, and thick dark eyebrows drawn over suspicious and wary eyes. 

“You saw Arya?” Jon asked, pinning the young man with his gaze. “Your name?” he demanded. He did not recognize this man as Jon Snow, but some part of him that was a wolf recognized his smell.

“His name is Gendry Storm,” Edd told him, giving the young man a sidelong glance before looking back at Jon. Jon noticed the instant glance Ser Davos Seaworth, King Stannis’s man shot towards the Red Woman before he spoke up in his gruff, seaman’s voice.

“He’s one of the old King’s sons,” the former pirate said. “He came to take the black.”

Edd stepped forward. “The new recruits have not been set up with training, I was thinking we should have them say their vows, and train them as they go on. We do not have time to train them, nor do we have anyone to do the actual training, unless it’s sporadically.”

Jon nodded. Edd’s thinking was sound. Any new recruits they received would be safer for having taken their vows. The Wall would protect them.

Jon wondered at the history between Gendry Storm and the Red Woman, but given Melisandre’s penchant for sacrificing the blood of king’s to the flames of R’hllor, he suspected that she was looking to, or had already tried, to give him to the fire. 

“He travelled with Arya in the Riverlands,” Sansa spoke quietly in his ear. “Before…….,” she paused and took a quick breath. “Before the wedding at the Twins.”

‘Before the Red Wedding,’ Jon thought. ‘Before Robb’s death, and before Sansa’s mother was killed along with him. Before the Starks had lost the North, and the Lannisters had won the war.’

“You have not seen her since? You don’t know what happened to her?”

Gendry Storms face took on an ominous cast, and he shot a dark look at everyone around him. He was as green as summer grass, Jon saw, for all that he had been through the war-torn Riverlands. He was not ready for what would face them.

As the came within view of the great ice wall that toward seven hundred feet above them, and left the cover of the trees behind, Satin came up to Jon’s other side and discreetly slipped under Jon’s shoulder, supporting his weight.

The ice glittered silver before him through the falling snowflakes, and staring at it, feeling the power of it, feeling as awed by it as he had the first time he had beheld it, Jon thought ‘the Wall is mine.’

He would find a way to hold it. He would find a way.

From the very top, the sentries had seen them, and a horn blasted out, echoing over the landscape, and turning muffled as its clear sound was blanketed by the snow. One blast. Rangers returning. 

But then, after a moment, it trilled out again, a gallant, oscillating sound, almost flamboyant and jubilant. Just one blast of it; in honor of the Lord Commander returning.

The cold-rolled steel of the gate was winched upwards as Jon and Sansa and Satin, Dolorous Edd, Dywen, Gendry Storm, Ser Davos Seaworth and Melisandre, Tormund Giantsbane, Big Liddle the ranger, who was the son of The Liddle of the Northern Mountain Clans, senior ranger Jarmen Buckwell, who had survived the Battle of the Fist of the First Men, and Halder, a builder who had graduated in the same class as Jon, Sam, Pyp and Grenn, all passed through to the courtyard of Castle Black.

The Stannis’ men and the remaining men of the Night’s Watch were gathered there to watch them enter. Jon pulled away from Sansa and Satin, walking slowly and stiffly so that all could see him clearly.

Jon glanced around at all the men. Alliser Thorne was not there. Nor were Olly, Othel Yarwyck, or Bowen Marsh. Jon glanced at Edd who nodded. “What’s done is done.” He spoke in a clear, carrying voice, although he knew his voice was as cold and stern as his lord father’s had been. Pyp had once told him he had a voice like ice when he chose. “We have work to do,” he told the Night’s Watch. “All you who remain and have not already done so, you will go with Ranger Buckwell to take your vows. Afterwards, you will be assigned to Orders by Steward Tollett.”

He limped towards the Lord Commander’s tower. “Edd!” Edd, Satin, Sansa, Tormund, and Davos Seaworth followed him into the tower and into the cluttered rooms of the leader of the Night’s Watch.

Jon looked at the mess on the desk before him and raised an eyebrow at Edd. “The White Walkers did it,” the steward said with a straight face. “Came in the night they did. Tried to make off with the silverware too, but I stopped them.”

Jon did not laugh but he heard his sister give a quiet breath of a chuckle.

“We don’t have time for jokes,” Tormund growled. He was prowling around Jon’s rooms like a bear caught in a cage. “How are you feeling, boy?” He asked the Lord Commander. He fixed Jon with his piercing blue eyes. Shrewd eyes they were, and more often than not filled with laughter, but now he was deathly serious as he studied the young leader of the Night’s Watch who had just come back from the dead. “What did that Red Lady do?”

Jon tried to explain how it felt to be reborn; to jump from a man to a wolf with no way to get back, and then to be pulled, inexorably, back into an old, tired body he thought he had left behind forever. He did not think there were words in all the realms of Westeros, Essos, the Summer Isles, Asshai of the Shadow, or even the in the Southern continent to described how it felt to pass through the fire.

“I feel cold,” he told Tormund. The big man narrowed his eyes even further and put a hand on the axe at his belt. “White Walker cold?” he growled, menacingly.

“No, but colder than I did before.”

Satin reached out and took one of Jon’s hands. “You do have cold hands, my lord,” the fair boy murmured.

“Cold hands means a warm heart,” Sansa spoke out, instantly, in his defense, and Jon looked back up at her, where she stood standing behind his chair, one hand on the backrest. He attempted a smile just for her, although it felt unfamiliar and wrong on his face.

“Edd,” he said, quietly. “Please find quarters for my sister, Lady Stark.” He studied Sansa’s beautiful, still face. “Who is with you, Sansa?”

Her blue eyes were direct, but shuttered, the honesty and naiveté he remembered were gone, and ice had taken its place. ‘Winter is coming,’ he remembered the words of his father’s House. He was not sure whether he was glad that it had come so soon for his sister. “And your husband? Ramsay Bolton? Lord Bolton sent us word that his heir had married the last remaining Stark, but is he dead, that you are here?”

Jon listened to Sansa’s tale of Theon and escape, and Stannis’ utter route with growing disquiet. He had known that Stannis had been defeated, but he had not known how badly the Boltons had decimated the Baratheon king’s forces. ‘It would have been better for all of us if Stannis had one,’ Jon thought.

“I have to think on what to do,” Jon said at last, “but Sansa, does he know which way you fled?”

“The North was the only way free,” Tormund spoke up. “My people have scouted far south and east. We did not enter Umber land, and we left the mountain clans to the west alone, but everywhere else we saw the banner with the flayed man on it.”

“The Karstarks fought with the Boltons against King Stannis,” Sansa added. “The Karstarks, and the men loyal to House Cerwyn, and even the Tallharts of Torrhen Square. I saw their banner as well.”

“Not many know the part the Boltons played in the Red Wedding,” Ser Davos Seaworth said.

“And perhaps they see the Boltons as the lesser of two evils,” Jon mused. “The North has never bowed willingly to a southern king.”

“Better the demon you know than a foreign one,” Tormund agreed.

Jon thought of his sister standing beside him, and Bran and Rickon hopefully still alive, still fighting, and still heirs in the North. He listened to Edd and Davos explain their solution to the remnants of the Baratheon soldiers, and contemplated Theon Greyjoy’s presence. He wondered what his father would have done, what Lord Commander Mormont would have done, and what Qhorin Halfhand would have decided. He even wondered what Mance Raydar would have attempted in his place.

At last Jon spoke. “Edd, recall Cotter Pyke from Eastwatch by the Sea, and Ser Denys Mallister from the Shadow Tower. I am convening a Council of War.”

Edd nodded and turned to go, before turning back and staring at his Lord Commander. “Jon?” he asked, his usually droll voice serious for once. “Everything’s going to change, isn’t it?”

“It must,” Jon told him, “if we have any hope of surviving.”

Edd nodded. “And I was just getting used to the old changes, too,” he complained. “A man can’t catch a break.” A spark of humor lit his eyes. “Even when he’s dead,” he shot at Jon, before vanishing out the door.

Jon could see Sansa looking shocked at such blatant familiarity and direct mockery of what had happened. He remembered his little sister Arya and him giggling as they said together, “don’t tell Sansa” before any attempt at rule breaking. And for the first time since he had come back, Jon Snow laughed.

Jon’s laughter died quickly.

He looked down at the lists he was drawing up; provisions, men, arms, allies; how many days, weeks, months until it was cold enough, dark enough, that the White Walkers could attack the very Wall itself? Jon did not know, and he did not know if there was a way to find out. 

He wait until Edd had come back.

“Tormund.” The name was a question, a query, and the big man understood. 

“They will fight with you, Jon Snow. Because you kept your word they will keep theirs. But they will only fight for you; you and no one else.”

“I’m hurt, Tormund,” Edd drawled. “Truly.” The way back from Hardhome had bonded the two men, which was a rather interesting development as far as Edd was concerned.

The red-head grinned, all beard and teeth “You’ll always be a crow to them, Tollett. An itty-bitty crow.” He grinned even wider.

“We need to re-open some of the other castles,” Jon murmured. “We have too many people who don’t get along.” He had an idea, based off of Sam’s reports from his flight back to the Wall with Gilly and her baby, but he was unsure if it was tactically the right move for all that it made sense strategically.

“Er, except for the Thenns,” Tormund added now, sounding almost apologetic but mostly just annoyed. Jon looked up. Edd looked solid and loyal and ready for action, Tormund looked shifty at the moment, but reassuringly resolved, and Ser Davos Seaworth was deep in thought, eyebrows drawn down over shrewd eyes, a weathered face, and a stubborn chin. Sansa’s and Satin’s faces he could not see, for they stood behind him.

“The Thenns will not fight?” Jon asked slowly. This did not bode well, for the Thenns of all the Free Folk were the best organized, most disciplined, and had well-made weapons. They were also fearsome fighters.

“They say they will not,” Tormund affirmed. “I fucking hate Thenns,” he added.

Jon frowned in thought. “I’ll have to think on that, but they will fight. They have to. For thousands of years the Free Folk took whatever they wanted from this land. Now they will give something back.”

He looked at Edd. “I want everyone in the Hall in thirty minutes,” he told the Steward. Edd nodded, but frowned at his Lord Commander.

“You will go nowhere by yourself anymore, Jon,” he ordered his own leader. “The Red Woman was right at least in that; you need protection. You were foolish. Ghost goes with you at all times.”

“I agree,” his sister, Sansa said. “And when Steward Tollett is not with you, you will have a rotating guard by your side. The rangers seem quite loyal to you, and I would pick northmen as well.”

“I agree as well, my lord,” Davos agreed. “But you need protection as well, Lady Sansa. You are a Stark, and the Boltons will find you soon enough, if one of the Night’s Watch has not already given you up. That young man you came with? He does not leave your side.”

“Theon Greyjoy?” Jon frowed. All he saw when he heard the name was Winterfell burning, Bran and Rickon fleeing into the wild, and Robb betrayed on all sides. “Bring Greyjoy to me,” he commanded. Edd left once again and Jon felt Sansa still beside him.

“Jon,” she questioned, but quietly.

Jon knew his eyes and voice were like ice as he looked at his sister. “We are constantly betrayed, Sansa, by those who swore to us their duty and their honor. But no more. Winter is coming; it is right before us and we do not have time for this petty fighting for an iron throne any longer. Those who break their word will face Stark justice, northern justice.”

Sansa held his gaze for a moment, and her eyes were as hard as Jon’s own. Then she nodded.

Theon Greyjoy was escorted in limping but Edd pushed him down on his knees before the Lord Commander’s desk all the same. Greyjoy’s face was grey and haggard, his eyes were wild with fear and darted from face to face, and he twitched as though expecting to be hurt. Jon exchanged a glance with his sister.

“My husband,” she spat in answer. “He tries to break his toys.”

‘He did not break you,’ Jon thought, and felt a rush of fierce pride in his sister.

“Theon broke through Ramsay’s conditioning,” Sansa explained. “He broke through long enough to help me escape. He thought we might both die in the attempt, but it was the only way to get away, and we did not die after all.”

Greyjoy kept his gaze flitting from Jon to Sansa. “Snow,” he began, and Jon remembered all of Theon’s cruel japes on his bastard status back when they had been boys together with Robb at Winterfell.

“Lord Snow.” Jon’s voice cracked like a whip, and jury coated his voice. “The fact that you aided my sister means you keep your worthless hide, Greyjoy, but you are not forgiven. You actions all but destroyed my family, and damaged the Night’s Watch when we needed the aid of Winterfell the most. You have much to atone for.”

Greyjoy flinched violently and cowered even further.

“Luckily, “Jon continued, “winter is coming.” He paused and waited to the fearful eyes to once again meet his. “Take the black and make up for the sins of your past, Greyjoy. Take the black and help me save the realms of men.” The words were grudging; Jon did not want to forgive, but he was his father’s son and his duty was to the words he had spoken, the vow he had taken to the Night’s Watch.

Theon Greyjoy said his words to Jon and the Drowned God right there in the Lord Commander’s office, and Jon charged him and old Dywen with Sansa’s protection.

After all but Satin and Ghost had left him, Ser Davos Seaworth remained.

“Strengthening the Night’s Watch is all well and good,” the bluff, loyal man said bluntly, “but it means nothing while the Bolton’s hold the North. You do not have enough men, and you need Winterfell behind you. The North will not follow House Bolton, no more than they followed Stannis. From what I’ve seen, the North will only follow the Starks and the Starks – all that remain of the Starks – are here. If you do nothing, the Boltons will come and the choice, all choices, will be taken from you.

“It seems to me, Jon Snow, that your duty to the Night’s Watch has ended. You died, you were killed doing your duty, and your oath has been fulfilled. ‘And now you watch has ended,’” he quoted. “Aren’t those the words? Your sister alone cannot take back the North, but together the two of you could call the banners; you have the leadership ability, and she has the claim.”

The man stopped talking when he realized Jon was not arguing with him.

“All this I know,” Jon said, quiet and hard, “but the Night’s Watch is still important. It is my duty as well. ‘The realms of men,’ you reminded me once, and the Starks have always known that their duty was to both Winterfell and the Wall, and the Wall, Ser Davos, is mine.”

Jon looked out at the assembled strength of the Night’s Watch and scowled. “Everyone get up and sit next to someone you have not talked to before,” he snapped. No one moved, but looked uncertain.

“You heard the Lord Commander,” Edd bellowed, and they moved; maybe because Edd had a loud voice and had taken command in Jon’s absence, or maybe because a man they had seen dead was ordering them about. Jon’s scowl lessened after this.

He stared at the men around him; at Kegs, and Ulmer, old Dywen, Satin, Dolorous Edd, Big Liddle, Jarmen Buckwell, Halder, Iron Emmett, Dick Fallard, and ancient Ser Wynton Stout, Giant, and Alan of Rosby, Gendry Storm, and all the others, both new and old, familiar and unfamiliar, highborn and commoner.

“Night’s Watch,” Jon began, standing and addressing them in as loud a voice as he could manage; his throat was still scratchy. “Our order was created for times such as these. The Seven Kingdoms may be blind and suffering, but the Long Night is upon us and our Watch is just beginning. These times will be the end of us though, if we do not adapt to meet them.” Jon stared at the all fiercely. “I know many of you fear, or are uncertain of, the direction I am taking the Wactch, and it is true that we are different than the brothers who came before us, but our first duty is to the realms of men. ‘Our honor is nothing as long as the realm is safe.’ Qhorin Halfhand said those words to me when I balked at being known as a turncloak for pretending to join Mance Raydar’s army. And he was right, for if we fall, nothing stands between the White Walkers and the people we are sworn to protect.

“So we must not fall. We must not fail.

“We must strengthen the Wall and the Night’s Watch any way that we can. First, I am re-opening Long Barrow. Iron Emmett,” and a fierce, young, and strong ranger originally from Eastwatch stood up. “You have the command there.” There were cheers from the Night’s Watch who knew him and even from some of the former Baratheon men. “Eddison Tollett will be your second. You will take Maester Jacrum from the Shadow Tower, and you will be in charge of all the fighting women from Mance Raydar’s army; the spearwives.” 

Now there were catcalls and jeers from the men. Iron Emmett’s face did not change. “It is an honor, Lord Commander Snow,” he said, and Edd nodded his ascent as well. Maester Jacrum was the older, wiser Maester at the Shadow Tower. Maester Velaro had been sent to replace him at death, but Jacrum was wiser, and less of a threat for breaking his vows with the women Jon was sending to Long Barrow.

“Tormund,” Jon ordered, “your clan will take of Queensgate. Donal Hill,” he said, and a middle-aged ranger in the center of the Hall stood up. He had the fading blond hair of a Lannister, and maybe his father had been of that family, but he had fought at the Fist of the First Men, and knew what they faced, and he was flexible enough, and without that fabled Lannister pride that would cause friction between him and Tormund. “Dywen will go with you as first ranger, and any twenty men that you choose, however ten must be from the Baratheons who have recently joined us.”

Donal Hill would need loyal men around him, or Tormund would take command. Jon wanted Night’s Watch men in charge of his castles or there was a large chance they would fail to obey his orders when he needed it most. But he could not afford to give twenty of the remaining fifty Night’s Watch still alive at Castle Black to Donal Hill or he would have none who were loyal to him, so ten must be from the new crop they had taken in. Jon had every faith that Iron Emmett’s hard justice, and Edd’s dark humor, would win them the loyalty of the spearwives, but Donal Hill was a different story, and the only man Tormund Giantsbane had obeyed was the dead King Beyond the Wall, Mance Raydar. So an alliance it would have to be not a strick command at Queensgate.

‘You make do with the tools you have at hand,’ Jon rememebered his lord father saying to him once, when he was small.

“We are closing Castle Black,” Jon continued now, and waited for the resulting uproar this caused to settle. “We are sealing the tunnel with ice and stone, and moving to the Nightfort as soon as possible.” And now the shouting was mixed with superstitious mutterings of the Rat Cook and other takes this first castle of the Night’s Watch had accumulated over eight thousand years. 

The Night’s King had ruled from there, with his Corpse Queen, and had enslaved the Night’s Watch to him by magic. The thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had forsworn every vow and duty and turned to darkness. Even his name had been defiled forever and stricken from every record, and now he was only known as the Night’s King. For thirteen years he had commanded at the Nightfort, and it had taken the combined might of the Stark at Winterfell and Joramun, the King Beyond the Wall, to bring him down. Jon shivered. Old Nan had always maintained that the Night’s King had been a Stark, and had killed his own brother, the Brandon Stark of Winterfell who had rode out to stop him.  
He remembered the White Walker with his crown of ice who had stood at the shores of Hardhome. The king had lifted his arms to raise the dead and prove his strength, brother to brother, to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and a son of Winterfell.

“The Nightfort has a poor reputation,” he admitted, but it was the first, and it is the strongest. The power that flows in the Wall flows through the Nightfort as well. And Samwell Tarly told me that beneath the castle lies a gate through which only sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch may open. There is nothing left north of the Wall but death.” He ignored the sharp pain he felt as he though of his brother Bran, vanished somewhere north on a doomed errand to find the Children of the Forest, like the Last Hero of old. The Free Folk believe these small, powerful beings still existed, but none of them had ever seen one. ‘Bran is a Stark,’ he told himself. ‘If there is a way, he will find it.’

“And only we will pass,” he finished telling his brothers. ‘Only the Night’s Watch, and none of the dead, until they either climb the Wall, or bring it down.’

The Night’s Watch listened quietly after this. They listened as Jon ordered the building of glass houses, like those he remembered at Winterfell to grow crops. The glass he had ordered with the last of the Night’s Watch money from Myr before his death, and they were due at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea at any day. Again he ordered the ravens to be sent out in a general call for aid, and at last he brought up the thing he had been afraid they’d baulk at the most, and he began to speak to the Night’s Watch about Winterfell, and the Boltons.

Afterwards, leaving them still arguing and shouting one another down, Jon returned to his rooms, sent everyone away except Ghost, and threw up in his chamber pot. He lay on the cold, stone floor, shivering and shaking, feeling the world spinning around him, and smelling the bitter scent of his own vomit. Snow fell softly outside the window, the winds had died down, and everything was so very cold. All he felt was the cold and all he heard was the silence, and all he saw behind his waking eyes were the knives in the darkness as they stabbed him over and over, and they let the cold in. He saw their faces, cold and hard and as unforgiving as the Kings of Winter in their crupts beneath Winterfell. ‘You have no honor and have forsaken your duty,’ they all told him, eyes like blue ice. ‘You do not belong here, this place is not for you. Winterfell is not yours. The Wall is not yours. You are faithless, forsaken, and accursed.’

Behind them he saw Robb, face pale in death as he beckoned to Jon to follow him. Beside him stood a bloody woman clutching her stomach, with dark, matted hair, who could only be Robb’s queen. Their father was there, stern and forbidding, with Robb’s direwolf, Grey Wind, on one side of him, and a pale, lovely young woman on the other, who had a crown of blue winter roses placed on her dark hair. ‘Jon,’ she whispered sadly, and then purple fire rose up before him burning everything in its path. Jon cried, and woke up.  
He was still curled up on the floor and night had fallen, but he was warm. Ghost was burrowed into his front, and strong, slender arms encircled him from behind. He tilted his head and caught a flash of red hair. For a moment he feared and hoped, but then he realized.

“Sansa?” he whispered harshly.

“Yes,” his sister murmured back. “You have a fever, but you fought me when I tried to move you, and I did not think you wanted anyone else to see you like this.”

‘No,’ Jon thought, but his fever dream still clung to him. “Sansa,” he whispered again, one hand folding over hers and the other burying itself into Ghost’s warm fur. “I am no Stark. You should not be here, comforting me. I have done….too many things that were wrong. I truly am a bastard without honor.”

Sansa was quiet for a while, and the only sound was their breathing, and the clang of metal on metal in the practice yards as the swords sang, and the shouting of Edd as he ordered the new recruits about with enjoyment.

At last Sansa said, “You are as much a Stark as I am, Jon Snow. More even, for you chose a life of hard duty, while I chose to be the queen in some stupid story. You saw what was truly important, Winterfell and the realm, and I always chose the wrong thing.”

“I feel like I always choose wrong as well,” Jon admitted, and Sansa laughed. She had a laugh like bells, this child-woman his sister of his had become, and her laugh was the sweeter for she never seemed to even smile anymore, he had noticed already.

“Look at us,” she said with bitter mirth, “Starks of Winterfell afraid of our duty and the hard choices that come with it. Father would be ashamed of us both.”

“Father always said that a man who knew no fear was not a man at all but a monster, and that fear was what made us look for what was right,” Jon remembered.

“Father would tell us to stick together and keep going, that we were Starks of Winterfell and to remember our words,” Sansa agreed. She got to her feet and held out her hand to Jon; it was smooth and white and flawless, and her bright hair looked silver in the moonlight, with the snow falling behind her. Jon took her hand, she left him to the bed, and there she threw the firs over him. “I’ll get you some hot broth,” she said, as she lit a taper, “and tell Satin to light a fire in here.”

“Where’s Theon?” he asked her, frowning, remembering her assigned guard.

“I left him outside the door,” she admitted, “and he’s probably hungry as well by now.”

Sansa moved towards the door but stopped with her hand on it. “I agree we must take back the North, but we must do it in our names only, Jon. Bran and Rickon must be left out of it, despite not being the honorable thing to do. They will be hunted, Jon,” she pleaded. “They will be hunted if it is even suspected they are alive. They are safer dead, and when they are ready, they will know where we are and come to us. And if we fail, they will try again someday when they are older.”

“But the Boltons already know,” Jon protested. “If Roose Bolton and his monstrous son already know, what does it matter?”

“But the Greyjoys do not know. Nor do the Lannisters. Or Littlefinger. He would kill them both to make me Lady of Winterfell, and you as well if you were trueborn.”

Jon had never heard the former Master of Coin to be a dangerous man, but Sansa said he was ruthless and cunning, with charm and a deep obsession for the dead Lady Catelyn. Jon could tell that Sansa was withholding things from him, and that made him trust the new Lord Paramount of the Vale and the Riverlands even less.

“And I overheard Lady Barbrey Dustin speaking with Lord Bolton at Winterfell,” Sansa continued, referring to the ruler of the Barrowton. “She betrayed Robb at the Twins as well. We don’t know how many are against us, or who would betray us for the right price.”

“Yet,” Jon promised her.

“Yet,” Sansa agreed.

The morning dawned bright and clear and cold. 

His fever broke sometime during the night, and by mid-day the axes rang beyond the Wall, and the anvils sparked s swords and shields were made, arrows were fletched, bows were strung, and the last of the crops were brought in from the Gift that had not yet been burnt by the Wildlings before their attack on Castle Black.

Sansa had made herself busty helping the stewards sort and preserve the food, as well as speaking with each of the men in soft, gentle tones. She had a smile for every one of them, and a kind hand as well. Jon could see the men’s grateful eyes follow her as she passed, and some of the avaricious glances as well.

Tormund was bellowing orders at the Night’s Watch as though they were his unruly Free Folk, and although they gave him sullen looks, and muttered threats, he merely cuffed them and told them to ‘put their bloody backs into it.’

“At least one of us is having fun as the world ends,” Edd observed morosely. He was Jon’s guard for the morning. Sigorn, the young Magnar of Thenn, sniggered from where he lounged in a chair against the wall of Jon’s solar. Jon gave him a quelling look.

“Tormund would bellow at the Night’s King himself,” Sigorn confided. He was barely more than a boy, this Thenn, and still good-humored where his predecessors had been hard, cruel men.

Hobb tottered in, Satin following him, and shoved a tray overflowing with food at Sigorn. “Make yourself useful, you.” And they brought the food over to Jon’s desk. There were blood sausages, oat porridge with honey dribbled over it, apple slices, fried eggs with onions and fiery peppers, and back fish with raisins sent from Eastwatch.

They had barely finished when the Lady Melisandre, followed by Ser Davos, came with haste into Jon’s solar. “Jon Snow,” the woman’s husky tone was hurried and flustered. “I have seen visions in the fire. The Lord of Light speaks to me even now, my lord; your sister is approaching this castle.”

‘Arya?” Jon thought, ‘how can that be?’

But the girl who came galloping up to them with a lathered, haggard horse, and a weary face, was not Arya Stark, although she bore Stark features. This girl was taller than Arya, and older as well, but she was skinny as their sister, with the look of a wild colt about her, the long face of the Starks as well as their light eyes, and a mop of long, frizzy dark hair, bound in a messy braid.

She half-fell, half-jumped off her horse and stumbled over to the base of the Lord Commander’s tower where Jon stood with Sansa on one side of him, and Edd on the other.  
“Lord Snow,” she panted, dropping a curtsy as her breath misted in the mid-morning air. Wind swirled the snow off the rooftops of the buildings at Castle Black and caught and sparkled in the sunlight. Snow-drifts blew across the courtyard and swirled through the young woman’s thick-woolen, deep-purple skirts.

Jon flexed his burned hand in the unconscious exercises taught to him by Maester Aemon. “Yes,” he said.

“I am Alys Karstark, the only daughter of Lord Rickard Karstark, whom your brother, the Young Wolf, executed at Riverrun.” She must have noticed Jon’s discomfort for she smiled, quick and hard and sharp. “I have come for justice for myself, Lord Snow, not revenge for my lord father. He betrayed his oath and he paid for it, and that is the end of it. There is no justice to be found at Winterfell anymore, however, and no Starks either. So I have come to the Night’s Watch, and I beg your help, Lord Snow. You are the only one who can help me now.”

So Jon invited her in.

Alys Karstark was shivering from the cold, as well as snivelling and coughing from a head cold. Her hands and lips were chapped and bleeding, but she actually smiled as Ghost bounded up to her, sniffed her thoroughly, and then licked one battered hand. She patted him gingerly on the head.

She accepted broth and a steaming cup of mead from Hobb, but seated herself before Jon and gave stern looks at the men still crowded into Jon’s solar until he waved them all away.

“Even me?” Tormund growled, shocked.

Jon almost smiled. Tormund had sounded just as surprised when Mance Raydar, the King Beyond the Wall, had told him that as well. Before Melisandre had burned him.

“Especially you,” Jon told Tormund quietly. He knew his eyes were tired and sad, and his voice was cold like ice, but Tormund gave a hearty laugh, clapped Jon hard on the back, and left with the others.

The Karstark girl had an amused half-grin on her face as she studied Jon under eyes as tired as Jon felt. “Still as humorless as you ever were, Lord Snow,” she said, with an impish grin that almost reminded him of Arya. 

Jon frowned. “Do we know each other, my lady?” he asked, his voice was stiff and formal.

Alys Karstark’s smile grew even wider and she scratched Ghost’s head before the direwolf bounded away again and out the door. “We danced together once at Winterfell, and you were as sullen then as you are now.” She sighed dramatically, like a maid in love. “However, your brother, Robb, was as gallant as a prince, with a smile that made all the girls in the North dream of finding him in their beds.” Her face took on a mock-solemn cast while her eyes danced with mirth. “I never noticed but you’re quite pretty though, my lord, for all your scowls. I bet you’re prettier than I am.”

Jon Snow snorted.

The tale she told him then, of her Uncle’s mad grab to seize Karhold, the ancestral seat of the Karstarks, away from her one remaining brother, and marry her to his own son, was the kind of thing that the Lord of Winterfell should be dealing with.

“Lord Bolton is allies with my Uncle Cregan,” Alys explained. “He would hold me for Uncle and likely bed me himself, as his droit de signeur.” She scowled fiercely. “’Well bloody bugger to that,’ I said. I climbed out my window in the dead of night, stole a horse from the stables, and rode like the dickens to reach you before my uncle could catch up.”  
Jon eyed the glaring woman warily. “And what do you expect me to do,” he told her. 

“You have power, my lord,” Alys Karstark told him bluntly. “You command men, and you respect in the North. And you Ned Stark’s only remaining son. You are more my lord than any Bolton ever will be.”

Jon, to his own surprise, did not have to think long and hard on what he was going to do with her. It would deprive an ally of Roose Bolton from Karhold, strengthen his own alliance with the Karstarks, bind the Thenns to the fate of the North, and get rid of Lady Barbrey Dustin in one stroke. 

If it all went to plan that was.

He took Alys Karstark to the window and pointed out young Sigorn, the Master of Thenn, and wasn’t at all surprised when the fierce girl began to grin. “So, you want me to wed this barbarian chief from beyond the Wall, and then march with them to claim Lady Dustin’s seat at Barrowton? So then I will have deprived my Uncle of his claim to Karhold, found myself with lands and a keep, as well as several hundred fierce Wildlings to guard me, and follow my husband’s commands.”

Her grin was as wolfish as Jon’s own. “We are kin, Stark and Karstark,” she told him, curtsying low. “Lord Commander, I knew I was right to come to a son of Wintefell. It will be as you command.”

Jon Snow married them himself before the weirwoods in the Haunted Forest, with all of Sigorn’s Thenns in attendance. As the marched off down the King’s Road before veering west and so planning to come to Barrowton from the North, Sansa came and stood beside him. “The first move in the game,” she murmured.

Alys Karstark turned to wave at them under her banner of the Karstarks, now with a symbol of the sun added to the moon for the Magnar of Thenn. She was already coming up with new names for her new House, a cadet branch of the Karstarks. So far she was on ‘Thennstarks,’ but thought that lacked a certain…..something.

Events were moving fast now, and so it didn’t even surprise Jon when, the very day of Alys Karstark’s departure, a huge, ugly woman in armor, and a rather fat squire, came through the gates at Castle Black, bringing along a cowled and chained Stannis Baratheon in their wake.

&……&……&……&……&……&

Stannis is back! Davos’ POV is next, and a trip to the Mermen’s Court. We’ll see what the Northern lords have been up to since the Boltons took over. It was one of my favorite parts of A Dance With Dragons.


	4. Davos

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! This chapter was going to move much faster, but then I realized that there were so many interactions that needed to take place between characters, and all the different interactions in the Merman’s Court turned out to be really fun to write.  
&……&……&……&……&……&

 

Davos

&..&..&  
Davos Seaworth stood in the snow of the courtyard at Castle Black and watched a big, armored woman with a homely face escort a bound and cloaked Stannis Baratheon through the gates.

His king was alive. His king, the man he had promised to follow through all Seven Hells, had returned from the grave.

Davos Seaworth punched him in the face.

It took three men pulling him back, and Jon Snow’s huge white wolf sitting on his chest, before Davos finally halted in his attempt to kill his king.  
Stannis Baratheon didn’t even flinch. He picked himself up out of the mud and slush, ground his teeth, and stared at Davos with hard, unbending eyes. This made Davos even angrier. 

“You should be dead,” he yelled. “In the name of the Princess Shireen, the daughter you killed, you should be dead!”

He was distantly aware of Melisandre of Asshai appearing by his side. The white wolf was still keeping him firmly pinned. The young Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Eddard Stark’s son, whom they had brought back from the dead with fire and northern Wildling witchcraft, stepped down the stairs from his tower. His eyes were as dark and cold as chips of black ice.

He had been still a boy when he died – when he had been betrayed and murdered by his own men – but that was gone now. Jon Snow was colder now, as hard as stone or steel, and Davos could see Stannis register something different about the young man when the king’s eyes narrowed in sudden concentration as he stared at the Lord Commander. Then Stannis’ eyes flicked sharply over to Melisandre.

“My lord, this man is a servant of the Dark Other. He is a deceiver, and evil in the sight of God. He must be given to the Lord of Light at the nightfires, immediately.”

It took Davos a moment to realize that the Priestess was speaking not to Stannis, but to Jon Snow about Stannis. For a half-second is heart stopped and he almost cried out in instant denial. And then he remembered that he too wanted Stannis dead; that Stannis had done something truly evil and that he had finally crossed the line.

But before he could decide what he truly wanted with regards to his king, the armored woman spoke.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, and Lord Stannis is my prisoner. No harm is to befall him while he is under my care.”

“And why is it that you have come here, Lady Brienne, with Stannis Baratheon as your prisoner?” the Lord Commander asked her. His cold eyes studied Stannis and the Lady Brienne, as well as the plump boy who followed her. Davos thought that there was not much the Lord Commander did not see.

The beautiful, young Lady Stark, who had been watching silently from the Lord Commander’s tower, descended to stand beside her half-brother.

Brienne of Tarth’s eyes grew wide and she bowed. “Lady Sansa,” she said. “I have been following you since last we saw each other.” She looked undecided for a moment before turning back to Jon Snow.

“Lord Snow,” she boomed out, “for his crimes, including the murder of his brother, King Renly Baratheon, the first of his name, Lord Stannis has come to take the black.”

Davos must have made some sort of noise at this.

Jon Snow’s eyes flickered over to him. “Ghost,” he commanded, and Davos was free again. The direwolf padded over to him silently. Brienne of Tarth’s horse shied away with a nervous whicker in fear of the huge beast. “And what do you seek from the Night’s Watch, Brienne of Tarth?” His tone was still cold and suspicious. “How do you know my sister, Lady Stark?”

The plump squire shot a nervous glance between Lord Snow and Lady Stark.

“I swore an oath to her mother, Lady Catelyn,” Brienne explained. “Before she died, I mean. I swore that I would bring her daughters back to her. Now that she is gone…” the big woman hesitated, before dismounting gracefully and taking a knee in the snow before the tall, lovely Stark girl.

“I waited for you outside Winterfell, my lady, should you have needed my assistance. I sent word to you through people still loyal to the Starks, and we followed you after learning that you had fled the castle after the battle. I have come to offer you my sword, my sworn service, and my honor. Although I am not a knight, I will fight and die for you like one. I was not there to protect your mother, and I failed her. Let me redeem myself in your service, my lady.”

Lady Sansa looked down at the kneeling woman by her feet and visibly hesitated. She licked her lips, stood a bit straighter, and almost darted a glance at her brother, but stopped herself. You served Lord Renly and were a member of his Rainbow Guard. Queen Margaery told me how loyal you were to him. If you were loyal, and you believe Lord Stannis to have murdered Lord Renly, the knightly thing to do would be to have executed him.”

Davos shot a startled look at the Stark girl, surprised at her words. Stannis looked surprised as well. He ground his teeth even further.

Lady Stark continued undeterred. “You told the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that a shadow with Lord Stannis’ face filled Lord Renly. Why have you not avenged him? If you are not loyal to Renly, how would you ever be loyal to me?” The strange thing was that she seemed more curious than angry.

Davos had taken several steps forward until he was standing next to Jon Snow, which was, coincidentally, as far from Melisandre as he could be while still being a part of what was happening. He was still undecided on what he should do, still undecided on who he should killed; Melisandre and her shadow demons, or Stannis, his king, for burning his own daughter because he believed he was the Lord of Light’s chosen vessel in the coming battle against the Others.

‘Mother guide me,’ Davos prayed, wondering yet again how he, a smuggler, lo born as the salt and the sea, had come to be mixed up in the affairs of kings and priests and heroes. 

‘No good ever comes of mixing with high folk,’ his mother used to say, and he knew that she was right. Vaguely he wondered what would have happened if he had listened to her, and he had a horrible feeling that there would be no Jon Snow here if he had. The Night’s Watch would have been overrun by Mance Raydar and the Wildlings, and would even now be sweeping south until they hit Roose Bolton and Winterfell.

But then again, if he had killed Melisandre the first time he’d wanted to, Jon Snow would be dead as well, the Night’s Watch would be leaderless, and the Starks would be down to one girl-woman, alone with the Boltons closing in all around her.

But Shireen would be alive.

Davos wondered how fast a man could drive himself mad, wondering about ‘what-ifs’. 

Brienne of Tarth did not lower her eyes from Lady Sansa’s. “I swore to serve King Renly, and when he died, I swore to serve Lady Catelyn, and by extension her family, my lady. My king would not have wanted me to execute his brother, no matter what his crimes. If his death had come by my hand in battle, with honor, it would have been just. Or single combat. But Renly would not have wanted me to kill his brother while he was unarmed and injured.”

She licked her lips, eyes flickering between the two Starks and the direwolf, before continuing.

“It seemed to me that the best way to honor my king, was if his brother paid for his crimes through a life of service at the Wall. But it also seemed to me that Lady Catelyn’s daughters, and the Starks by extension, would be served best if an experienced battle commander like Stannis Baratheon, was at the Wall to protect the North. She would have wanted that. Winter is coming and the days grow short; it would have been wrong to not give you every advantage that I could to help you defend the North, to take back the North, Lord Snow and Lady Stark.”

She dropped her eyes now. “If I have done wrong, I await your judgement, my lady.”

And Davos, standing there, was impressed at how clever, how right, this warrior woman had judged. She had attempted to keep both oaths of loyalty, and she had attempted to do what was right at the same time. He watched young Lady Stark and the Lord Commander exchange a long look, before Lady Stark nodded. 

“I accept your offer of loyalty, Lady Brienne. I am no king to knight you as your honor and deeds deserve, but I would hear you tell of them to me. I would hear if you have any news of my sister, our sister, Arya. You and your squire, Podrik Payne,” and here Lady Stark smiled at the boy, she she appeared to know, “will come with me and I’ll find you food and lodging. Rest up, for we will be leaving soon. The Wall is not safe for me.”

When she had gone, the half-wit Greyjoy boy trailing after her, Lady Melisandre spoke again. “Jon Snow, you must burn the Great Deceiver. He will only lead you astray into darkness, as he has led me. We must be cleansed in the sight of the Lord, for only he can lead us through the darkness.”

Jon Snow turned an icy look upon her and she fell silent. “Edd, escort the Lad Melisandre back to her rooms,” he ordered. “See that she stays there until I decide what to do with her.”

There was an uneasy silence after their departure. The wind blew from the north and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. Jon Snow rested one hand on the head of his direwolf, and looked steadily at Stannis Baratheon, whose hood had fallen back. It revealed a haggard, haunted face that looked twenty years older than it should. His eyes were lifeless, his hands still bound. He almost looked like a Black Brother already, in that tattered black cloak of his, which billowed and rippled in the wind. 

Davos realized that the man had still not said a word.

Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon stood across from one another and Davos was struck like a blow to the head by how similar and yet how different they looked. Both strong, stubborn, bound by honor and duty; the second son, the one who had always been different. Jon Snow, however, was a man reborn from the fire, his power ascending, his men behind him, and he had a cold, burning purpose in his heart.

Stannis Baratheon was a defeated, broken shell of what he had been, alone and bereft of all that had made him who he was, all that had made Davos swear loyalty to him unto the bitter end.

And this end seemed very bitter indeed. 

The first flakes of snow fell from the sky. Davos was starting to hate the snow and the cold already. He had no idea how the men of the Night’s Watch didn’t turn into blocks of ice.

‘The cold breeds cold men,’ he thought. ‘Cold and hard, but not without honor and strength.’ Melisandre had told him often enough that the cold was evil, and brought only death and darkness, but the Starks lived and thrived in the cold. And no one would ever accuse the Starks of being evil.

‘Well, no one but those fools in King’s Landing,’ Davos thought, although he had heard the rumors being spread by the Freys after the Red Wedding; the rumors which said that the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, had turned his men into wolves with evil magic, and had attack the Freys in their own hall.

The Freys claimed they had merely been defending themselves.

Davos snorted. Any fool who believed that dragon shit deserved to be Freyed themselves.

Jon Snow’s dark hair was coated with a layer of icy white flakes by the time he spoke. “In the Night’s Watch a man’s sins are wiped clean. A man is no longer what he was, but only what he proves himself to be in the performing of our duty.” His cold tone sharpened, filled with sudden passion. “Our individual honor does not matter as long as the realm is safe, do you understand?” He stared hard at the former king.

His voice was sharp, like a leader of men, like a lord of the North. “Stannis Baratheon, you sought to lead the realm. Can you now serve it?”

It was dark when Davos was summoned to the Lord Commander’s solar.

Jon Snow was not there, although a plate of uneaten dinner and strewn paperwork covered his desk. Stannis Baratheon, seated before the fire and dressed all in rough and worn black, rose to meet him.

“Ser Davos,” his king said, still and formal as ever. “The Lord Commander has stepped out to give us this time to talk-” 

“I have nothing to say to you, Your Grace, and nothing I want to hear either. The man you were, the man I saved from the siege at Storms End, would never have sacrificed his daughter for a throne, or the ravings of a mad woman who births shadow demons to kill good men.” He turned to go.

“All you say is true,” Stannis said, halting him. “And I deserve death and worse. I lost my way. I sat in that cold and that snow, unable to get to Winterfell, and I thought my daughter’s life was an acceptable price to pay to save the realms of men. She was my Nissa Nissa, the Red Woman told me. I had the flaming sword, I had a fire priestess on my side, and I had a destiny. Or so I thought. Maybe it was pride and folly and blind ambition. Maybe, for once, I wanted to have something my brother, Robert, never could. But whether I was right or wrong, my daughter paid the price.”

“Shireen,” Davos growled. “The princess Shireen.”

“The Princess Shireen,” Stannis agreed, his voice hollow. “She loved me. She loved me and I fed her to the flames. I still hear her screams; every moment of every day.”

“Good,” Davos snapped. “I hope you never stop hearing them. You are not forgiven. I do not forgive you.”

“And yet,” Stannis said, mild for him, “you have not taken the black, and you still wear my colors.”

Davos did not answer. He was not sure himself why he still wore Stannis’ colors, save for the distant memory of swearing loyalty to this man, as long as either of them lived. He hadn’t known if Stannis was dead, and now the man lived, but he wasn’t a king anymore, or even a lord. Men in the Night’s Watch held no lands.

“The Lannisters won’t care that you’ve taken the black,” he admitted grudgingly. “The queen will send someone to kill you anyway.”

“I know. And Snow and I have spoken of this already. You were right, Davos, when you said that ‘a king protects his people or he is no king at all.’ And I failed. I do not deserve to be king, it’s true, by Roose Bolton doesn’t deserve to sit his bony arse in the high seat at Winterfell either, and that bastard boy, Tommen, doesn’t deserve the Iron Throne. I can’t do anything about that anymore, but Jon Snow says I could do something about Bolton and his ilk. He believes that there must be a Stark in Winterfell if the North is to survive, some superstitious nonsense if you ask me, but the Starks have ruled here for over eight thousand years, so maybe he’s right.”

“The northerners in the Night’s Watch, and the small folk I’ve met, seem to believe a Stark needs to be in Winterfell as well,” Davos said thoughtfully.

“I wish I could have had half the loyalty these Starks command,” Stannis said, bitterly, “but only you, Davos, remained loyal, even though I’ve often been too blind to listen to you.”  
Davos stared at him and wondered if it would be possible for Stannis Baratheon to be re-born as he had been from the sea, and Jon Snow had from the fire and the ashes.

“What are you asking me to do, sire?” Davos asked, bluntly.

And Davos had listened carefully, and then he had listened carefully to Jon Snow.

And that was how he now found himself outside the walls of White Harbor, the greatest port in the North, the fifth largest city in the Seven Kingdoms, and the seat of House Manderly.

Ravens had been sent to all parts of the kingdom, telling of Stannis’ taking of the black, and his using his last power as king to legitimize his nephew, King Robert’s son by Delena Florent, and a boy of fourteen, as Lord at Storms End.

Edric Storm was now Edric Baratheon, ruler at Storms Ends, and Lord of the Stormlands. The boy was still with his mother’s family, the last Stannis had heard of him.

The Florents would make peace with the Iron Throne, Davos knew, and the Baratheon name would live on.

Davos himself had a message for Lord Wyman Manderly, the head of his house; actually it was more of a proposition. And it was signed by Lady Stark, Lord Snow, and Stannis as well.

He had travelled with an escort from Castle Black to Eastwatch-by-the Sea, moving along at great speed through increasingly blinding snowstorms. The Night’s Watch men returning to Eastwatch took paths that kept close to the Wall, and which were only known to the men in Black. At Eastwatch he had been placed on a boat, to avoid both Lord Cregan Karstark who had taken command at Karhold, and the ever-expanding power of the Dreadfort.

It had taken only two days, although the sailing had been rough, to reach White Harbor, and now Davos looked around him in awe.

Jon Snow had told him that his brother, Robb, had commanded Lord Wyman before his death to begin building warships, and Lord Manderly had indeed kept his promise to do so.  
White Harbor was split into an inner and an outer harbor, with the inner being much better defended, and offering more protection from the winds and fickle tides of these northern waters. It was protected by the city wall on one side and the Wolf’s Den on the other.

The Wolf’s Den was an ancient fortress that the small folk in White Harbor claimed was erected by Brandon the Builder. Davos doubted it, the stonework had more of an Andal feel to it, than that of the First Men. Houses clung like barnacles to its sides, made of stone and thatch and wood, and Davos knew that somewhere among them was an alehouse that breed the best black beer he had ever tasted, and a whorehouse where he had almost broken his vows to his wife, Myrah, many years ago now.

But Davos was quickly distracted from reminiscing about past adventures and misdeeds.

Twenty-three war galleys lay within the inner wall, many masted, with the Manderly banners flapping in the breeze. Men moved up and down them, painting and sawing, but their work was merely cosmetic. These ships were things of beauty, and they would be deadly in the open sea.

“Double-hulled,” the captain informed him proudly, coming up to Davos as he stood at the railing. “Made of thick oak. They’re almost impossible to ram, and they’re longer, with flatter bottoms so they can move faster, and in shallow water.”

“They will be easy to capsize in a storm, though,” Davos warmed him. The captain was a White Harbor man, a sailor in his blood. There was no way that he hadn’t already seen the flaw in there design.

“We shall see,” was all the captain said. He was on his last run from Eastwatch. Soon he was being given command of on the of new galleys, ‘The Mermaid’s Fist,’ it was called, although already the men were calling it ‘The Mermaid’s Tits’ for the rather prominent pair of breasts given to the figurehead of a fat mermaid on her prow. As they sailed past it and the men gave up a great cheer, Davos thought she looked kind of like how he imagined Lord Manderly did; which was to say, not something you’d want to dream about while wishing for home unless you were very, very drunk.

White Harbor was a clean and well-ordered city, very unlike King’s Landing, although this northern port had its fair share of disreputable areas, thieves, whores, murderers and cutthroats. And those were just the ordinary citizens, never mind the ones that got called criminals.

Davos firmly resisted the urge to pull a grin at his own wit. Stannis wouldn’t have approved of the joke, and Davos had firmly trained himself to resist giving any sarcastic commentary while in his presence. It was a hard habit to break.

He still wondered why he was doing this, why he didn’t just go home to his gentle Merya, his wife, and think no more of kings and ice demons and dragonlords. But he had always believed that a smuggled should know the tides and when to seize them, and something was telling him to stay with his king, even though he was no longer a king.

Something was telling him that his duty, his loyalty belonged with the north now, for he could see some good to be done here. He had wanted Stannis to bring order to this realm, he had believed in his king, believed that he was the only one strong enough, wise enough, to do so. He had never believed Stannis would kill Shireen, or he would never have left.  
He dreamed of the princess at night, dreamed of her alone and screaming, staring at the cold faces of her mother and her father, and the horrible, happy face of the Red Woman.  
She had died alone in this snow-cursed, gods-forsaken land, but Stannis knew what Shireen would tell him to do if she was here; she would tell him that it was like one of those great stories in her books. She would tell him that he had to help the heroes.

Davos had a sneaky suspicion that Jon Snow had an important part to play in all of this; people didn’t just come back from the dead for nothing, after all.

‘Mother save us, Father guide us,’ Davos thought quickly. Times were truly strange when dead men walked again.

They docked outside the Seal Gate, where Davos said good-bye to the captain and made his way up the Castle Stair, a street with wide, white stone steps that led past the Wolf’s Den, up and up until it reach New Castle, the seat of Wyman Manderly, and the home of the Merman’s Court and it’s intricately carved wooden walls.

The Castle Stair was lined with stone and marble mermaids, some brought all the way from Myr and Tyrosh, but most carved here by the fishermen and humble stonemasons of White Harbor. Often he stopped and looked back out at the sea, trying to fix the whitecaps and the restless pounding of the waves in his mind, trying to breathe in every salty breath of clean, crisp air. He had been too long at the Wall, too long away from the sea, and it was only now he was leaving her again, that he realized how much he had missed the water.

As Davos reached the top step, winded, bent-double, and contemplating approaching old age with a growing amount of annoyance, enemies came into view. A smuggler was always good at smelling when the winds changed, and Davos bet he could spot trouble as fast as any man in the Seven Kingdoms. Galloping in from the west, steeds lathered and a flag of two towers flapping in their wake, came several members of House Frey.

“Get out of our way,” one of them shouted to several older men and women attempting to cross the courtyard and enter New Castle.

Davos saw the two armored guards at the main doors exchange a look he could not read from this distance, before they stepped out and helped the people out of the way of the Freys.

Grooms came running out to meet them, and soon a young woman, slim and fair with large, doe eyes, exited from the main doors. She was most likely Lord Manderly’s granddaughter. One of them.

“My lords of Frey, I bid you welcome to White Harbor. Rooms have been prepared for you, if you will follow me.”

The woman turned without waiting for an answer, forcing the Freys – there looked to be four lordlings judging by their attire – and their men to follow without lingering.

“And the filth has arrived,” said a disgusted voice from his left, and Davos turned to see a short, plump young woman with vivid green hair, and blond eyebrows, standing next to him. Her gown was made of a very fine linen, heavier than those worn by the women of the south, and was a sea-blue color. She looked like a sea-maiden for all that her hair and dress slightly clashed.

“My lady,” Davos said, judging this to be the safest thing to say. If he had had a daughter there was no way he would let her walk around with green hair.

“You are Davos Seaworth, yes? We have had word of your arrival. My grandfather begs your pardon, but he will be unable to grant you an audience until tomorrow. But you are very welcome at the feast tonight,” her amiable expression soured, “for the Freys.” She held out a hand and Davos thought she meant for him to kiss it, but she vigorously shook it instead. “I’m Wylla Manderly, one of the granddaughters. You can sit next to me tonight, if you want?”

Davos nodded, slightly stunned at the speed of words coming from Lady Wylla.

“Good.” She smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “At least I’ll have someone sensible to talk to. Everyone around her has gone mad.”

She led him to a small room far in the corner of one of the towers. She looked apologetic. “It’s my grandfather’s orders,” she explained. Although Davos was quite content with the small, but warm and well-furnished, apartment, he was conscious that such a small room, issued to a knightly envoy from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, himself a son of Eddard Stark, was an enormous slight.

He was getting a bad feeling about this visit. Both Jon Snow and Lady Stark had been certain of Wyman Manderly’s loyalty to House Stark, but Davos knew that a man could be bought for many reasons, and he wondered what the Freys had that Lord Wyman might want.

“The Freys are meeting with your grandfather?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Lady Wylla nodded, looked as though she wanted to say something, and then thought better of it. “I’ll have a servant bring you hot water for a bath.” And then she departed, long shirts swirling around a confident stride.

Davos bathed and once again looked at the letters he carried in a hidden pocked sewn in his small clothes, next to his breast. One was from Stannis Baratheon, and the next was signed by both Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. If the Freys caught him somewhere alone before he could deliver them to Wyman Manderly would he have to eat them?  
Davos bathed, slept, and when he woke the sky was dark and he was being called to the Welcoming Feast for the Freys. The Merman’s Court, Lord Wyman’s Great Hall, was large – light and airy and built in a style that no other court in the Seven Kingdoms could boast. Its walls were as much a puzzle to decipher as they were something to hold the roof up.

The court was crowded, and although the company was not roaring and boisterous, the chatter was lively and the music from the minstrels in the gallery was sweet and rowdy by turns. 

Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, was the fattest man Davos had ever seen. No horse could carry him, he would require a mammoth to move around on land, and his own barge to go up a river. His girth spilled in rolls upon the table in front of him, and jiggled as he laughed; which was often and loud because Lord Wyman, if Davos was any judge, was well on his way towards drunk. His fat, florid face was red and he called out towards the servant and his family in a merry voice.

“Ser Ryman, Rhaegar, Olyvar, and Black Walder Rivers, you are welcomed to the Merman’s Court,” he boomed, and the Hall quieted. Ser Ryman, now old Lord Walder’s heir after the death of his father, Lord Walder’s eldest son, stood. He had a face like curdled milk and he eyed Lord Manderly with obvious distaste, but he inclined his head politely.

“According to the word from the Twins,” Wylla Manderly told Davos in a low voice from behind her hand, “Ryman and his half-brother, lame Lothar Frey did most of the planning for the Red Wedding.” There was anger in her voice.

Olyvar Frey sat on Lady Wylla’s other side, surprisingly far from his relatives. The rest of the Freys were on the dais with Lord Manderly, but Davos, Lady Wylla, and young Olyvar were on the table below them, surrounded by many of Lord Manderly’s other grandchildren.

Olyvar Frey had obviously heard her quite words though, for he stiffened, and then took another long drink from his wine cup. He was young and comely, but his hair hung limp and his face was pinched and strained. He drew his shoulders up tight around him, steadily drank, and studiously ignored Davos and Lady Wylla.

“I expected to see my son and nephew here already, Lord Manderly,” Ser Ryman continued, suspiciously. “I had been led to believe you were to foster them, instead of Lord Bolton, in order to improve relations between Frey and Mandery. Instead, I see a man who served the usurper, Stannis Baratheon seated in a place of honor with my own kinsman!”  
And all eyes sung towards Davos, who perfected a poker face and stared straight ahead.

“Davos Seaworth is a knight of the realm, and comes from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, not Stannis Baratheon,” Lord Wyman said. “Lord Stannis has taken the black, surely you have heard that even at the Twins.”

“Lord Snow is Ned Stark’s whelp,” snapped Black Walder, “and the brother of that accursed wolf king. We’ve had a raven from Ramsay Bolton, claiming that Snow kidnapped his wife, the last Stark girl, and has hidden her at the Nightfort. Lord Bolton has already declared his intentions to take the castle and the girl as soon as possible. He says the Night’s Watch has become obsolete, a hiding place for criminals and Stark supporters. The Wall will be manned by men loyal to House Bolton and loyal to the North!”

“Who are you loyal to, Onion Knight?” demanded Ryman Frey.

Davos knew that he had to tread very carefully. He had no idea if Wyman Manderly would protect him or not. “I carry word of a need for men for the Watch,” Davos said, “that is all.” And that was even true, as far as it went.

Next to him, Lady Wylla was growing red in the face and muttering imprecations under her breath. When she made a move to jump to her feet, Olyvar Frey reached over quick like a snake, and clamped a hard hand around her wrist, jerking her back down.

Black Walder snorted in derision, but Rhaegar Frey spoke up in an oily, unctuous voice. ‘Someone had really messed up naming that one,’ Davos thought. “Maybe it’s true, brother, let’s see what he says after the Feast, and we’ll decide for ourselves.”

“After the feast,” Lord Wyman agreed, and several Frey men sniggered, “but as to the matter of the young Walder Freys, I expect them sometime next week. We had a bird yesterday morning. An unexpected snowstorm delayed them, but I’m sure you will see them both soon.”

The food was excellent; mushrooms and buttered snails, sweet corn fritters bread, wild boar, cheese and onion pies, chopped mutton in almond milk, honey ginger partridge, and fish made in every way that fish could be made.

Lord Manderly ate heartily off several plates he’d ordered especially for the high table. He passed them around to the Greys, but none of that meat, which smelled delicious, ever made its way down to the other tables.

Wylla Manderly managed to accidentally knock her full goblet of meed full into Olyvar Frey’s face and doublet. She claimed it was the will of the gods for grabbing her earlier.  
Olyvar jumped back as the cold liquid soaked into his britches. “You’re an idiot,” he snarled at her, darting a wary glance at the high table and his kinsmen. “You’re a little fool,” he hissed, quieter.

Wylla Manderly looked so mad she could spit. Davos was afraid she would hurl her empty goblet at him again, but she clenched her fists together and snapped, “At least I’m not a traitor.”

Then she leaned closer, her strange green hair glinting in the light from chandeliers festooned with beeswax candles. She glared fiercely into Olyvar Frey’s pale, puffy face. “You were our king’s squire, and you betrayed him like all the rest of your vile family. You’re a traitor, and you’re a coward.”

Olyvar Frey stared at Lady Wylla for a long moment, then he turned away and drained his entire wine cup down to the dregs. “Another,” he shouted at a passing serving girl. “I’m a traitor and a coward whose family won in the end,” he told Wylla Manderly, and then he proceeded to ignore her.

The rest of the meal passed in silence for Davos, although he did exchanged several stilted words with Wylla’s sister and a Manderly cousin. At the end of the night, a slow, solemn song began to play from the musicians. There were no words that Davos could hear, but he was sure he did not mistake Lord Wyman belching a line that ran;

“A wolf there was, a wolf so fierce….”

The Freys were all too drunk to notice, until Lord Wyman bellowed out, “Freys, our friends of Frey, did you enjoy the Feast? The meat was especially tender, eh? Young, that’s the secret!”

Rhaegar and Ryman nodded, but Black Walder just glowered.

“We should talk about my son, Wendel, yes? Still at the Twins he is, and that’s no way to behave amongst friends, is it?” Lord Manderly’s tone was congenial and drunk, and so ingratiating it made Davos’ teeth hurt.

Ryman Frey spoke. “Ser Wendel’s our honored guest, not a prisoner. We save him when that demon-king, Robb Stark, and his men turned into wolves and started slaughtering us. At a wedding! At our own Roslin’s wedding! They were monsters, all of them, and we barely escaped with our lives.”

The hall was silent now, as Ryman Frey continued his melodramatic rubbish. But no one spoke against him, for Lord Wyman was nodding along and making sympathetic noises.

“Bad blood in the Starks, always was,” Rhaegar Frey spoke up. “Too close to Wildlings they were. They turn into wolves and eat their own young when the winters come.” He nodded sagely and several people in the hall nodded along with him, the ignorant fools. Davos felt his blood begin to boil at all the lies these Freys were no doubt spreading throughout the realm, in order to cover their own crimes.

“No doubt, no doubt,” Wyman Manderly agreed.

“Monsters like that are better off dead,” Black Walder growled. “We saved the realm from that evil warg king and his cronies.”

“That’s a lie!” Wylla Manderly’s voice rang out in a shot that bounced around the Merman’s Court like an explosion of wildfire.

“What did you just say, girl?” demanded Black Walder, incensed.

Wylla Manderly got to her feet, short and plump, with green hair and all of her quivering with rage. “I called you a liar,” she snapped, but she looked nervous at all the eyes staring at her; unfriendly eyes. She took a deep breath before the Freys could speak.

Olyvar Frey stared at her, his own eyes wide.

Wylla Manderly spread her arms to encompass her entire family. “Have you no honor? Have you all forgotten the oaths we swore? Stark men, we are Stark men. A thousand years ago, when we were cast out, alone and friendless, from our home, the Starks saved us. They gave us a purpose, a place in the world – a new home. And we swore we would always be theirs. We swore to stand behind them, to guard them, to save them, and to follow them, until the end of time. And House Manderly keeps its word. We are loyal to House Stark, and to House Stark alone!”

The silence in the hall was different now; uncomfortable and ashamed, angry and fearful.

Black Walder rose to his feet with a face like thunder. “Manderly,” he snarled, “control that bitch whelp of yours.”

Olyvar Frey closed his eyes wearily.

Wylla’s sister shouted that her sister did not mean it, and then burst into tears, but Wylla simply yelled, “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

And Wyman Manderly looked down at Davos with a face that had grown hard and unfriendly and not drunk at all. “You, Ser,” he shouted, pointing a fat, florid figure at the southern knight, “have brought discord and dissent into my home. You make my allies, my sworn allies, doubt my word, and you corrupt my granddaughter. Take Lady Wylla to her chambers and keep her there,” he ordered his guards.

“Rest assured that she will be punished,” he assured Ser Ryman Frey. “When Lord Bolton marches on the Nightfort, he will have five hundred of my men as well.”

Several other guards seized Davos. “I am afraid that our friends of Frey are right, Ser Davos. You have eaten at my table and so you will not be executed tonight. Instead, you will be imprisoned in the Wolf’s Den. Tomorrow, for your crimes against the realm, for the fact that you brought your foul heresies to my own Merman’s Court, you will be put to death.”

&……&……&……&……&……&

Next chapter will feature a return to Sansa, and then we’ll go to Asha/Yara. Also, Wylla Manderly and Wyman Manderly are two of my favorite characters in the entire series, so rest assured we’ll see more of them. We’ll also see more of Alys Karstark, I just have to find where to add her in for plot momentum.


	5. Sansa II

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! This chapter was hard to get right, mostly for narrative consistency reasons. Also, Nanowrimo started last week. Everyone should try Nanowrimo at least once in their lives! (Write 50,000 words during the month of November. Writing a novel is really fun, and stressful, but mostly fun.) Now on with the tale.

&……&……&……&……&……&

 

Sansa

&..&..&

It had been Sansa’s plan from start to finish, and when it went horribly, horribly wrong, she wondered why she had not seen the flaw in it. 

She had talked it over with Alys Karstark after the young woman’s marriage to the Wildling chieftain, Sigorn, and the young woman had been delighted. “We’ll throw them off both of our trails, Lady Stark,” she said, eyes alight at the possibility. 

Sansa had been working off the assumption that some at Castle Black would betray her presence to the Boltons, and someone (maybe even the same someone) would let Lord Cregan Karstark know that his errant niece was trying to get help from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

Everyone would betray you for the right price; Sansa had learned that lesson over and over again. The only person she trusted to be on her side, no matter what, was Jon. Bran and Arya and Rickon were out there somewhere, she could feel it, and they were hers too; her wolf pack. But the only way she knew to bring them safe to her, was to get their home back; Winterfell. If the Starks held Winterfell one more, her brothers and sister would return.

And to do that she needed to win back the North.

But she was only a young woman; a young woman married to the enemy, without an army, a castle, and only one warrior, who wasn’t even a knight, to fight for her.

But she also had Jon. Jon was still here and she had helped to bring him back; Jon who was not quite a Stark, and had taken the black so the wars of the realm had overlooked him. The Lannisters and the Boltons had deemed him to not be a threat. 

They had overlooked him, and saw her only as a pawn in their game, but that was good. Sansa could use that. It had kept them safe just a little bit longer.

“The trick is to misdirect both the Boltons and your Uncle,” she had explained to Lady Alys Karstark. They had been alone, practicing by the archery butts. Sansa gave up after several shots, knowing how hopeless she was; this had always been more Arya’s sort of thing than hers.

Alys Karstark however, was a natural; graceful and strong, with the eye of a true markswoman. Her arrows flew where she wanted them to. The boy she wielded was her own – re-enforced yew with steel points at the end that she could use as knives or daggers if she need to. Jon had inspected the bow, judging it to be good, but suggested further re-enforcement of heat-treated hickory and elm in order to withstand the cold.

Alys suggested vines twined and hardened around it, in order to preserve its flexibility instead. “It’s a longbow, and I think the hickory and elm would only cause it to suffer in range.”

Jon nodded and warned her against letting anyone get to close. “You’ll be surrounded by Free Folk soon, Lady Alys. I’m not sure how many of them will take to you, or again you. If you let them get too close-”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’m a long range fighter, but don’t worry Jon Snow; I have a few surprises in me.”

When Sigorn and his Thenns left, Alys Karstark went with them, but dressed as a man, keeping her head down and staying close to Sigorn, she looked like a Wildling boy.  
Satine, dressed in Alys’ clothes, with his hood pulled up, and a woman’s swing of the hips in his walk, cantered out of Castle Black later that day. This false Alys Karstark made for the Last Hearth and the Umbers, in full view of all the men of the Night’s Watch, who were making final preparations for the long march west along the Wall to the Nightfort.  
Satine himself, would ditch his woman’s garb a day south, and rendezvous with this march several days into their journey. He was confident that, given the wave of new recruits to the Watch, he could slip among their ranks without drawing attention to himself.

Jon was planning on informing the men that Satin was out scouting when they set off tomorrow. He was one of several scouts Jon had actually sent out in the past few days, to make sure the way was clear for the Night’s Watch, and to keep tabs on the various Wildling tribes, ostensibly settled in the Gift under Thormund’s nominal control. 

So that was Alys Karstark, and Karhold, taken care of – a bit of misdirection that would only buy them several days – and now there was just Sansa herself. She knew that Ramsay was coming; a raven from the Liddle, head of the Liddle mountain clan, and father of Big Liddle, one of Jon’s best and most rangers, had arrived at Castle Black the night before. It stated that Lord Bolton was preparing to march on the Night’s Watch and take care of the last Starks and Stannis Baratheon once and for all.

Sansa knew that Jon was worried, and that he didn’t like her plan. “Too many things could go wrong,” he told her, and he was right. Sansa had learned that the most successful plans had least number of variables. But she wasn’t planning, so much as taking the situation before her and trying to distort it a bit; just enough that it would buy them all some time until something changed in their favor – Davos would have found their brother Rickon and ascertained the loyalty of Wyman Manderly and White Harbor, Stannis would have secured the loyalty of the mountain clans on his march west towards Torrhen Square, Brienne would have succeeded on her mission, or even Alys Karstark and the Thenns would have taken Barrowton from Lady Barbrey Dustin – or they could come up with a really good plan.

Jon still didn’t like it. The day the majority of the Night’s Watch set out for the Nightfort, he went up on top of the Wall and brooded. The weather had taken a turn for the worse in the wilderness to the north, and it was bitterly cold up there. By nightfall, Edd Tollett came to get her. Ghost had stayed with her in Jon’s solar, and Sansa sat before the fire, absently petting him with one hand, and drawing up lists with the other. Sansa had always been atrocious at figures, but organizing words into lines and charts was something useful she had found herself doing in the Eyrie. Well, it was useful as long she remembered to burn them afterwards. Currently she was drawing up lists of potential allies and enemies – with rather depressing results.

Steward Tollett knocked, entered the room in snow-covered black and a face of iciles, and surveyed her glumly. “I told him he was going to die of cold before the White Walkers even got here, and all our hard work to bring him back would be wasted. But he didn’t listen to me; no one ever does,” he reflected gloomily.

Sansa smiled at him gently. She rather liked Steward Tollett. He had point blank refused to mark out with Stannis Baratheon, Ranger Liddell, and a few other northern Night’s Watch men. He had also refused to either depart for the Nightfort, or travel with Iron Emmett to meet up with the fighting Wildling women at Long Barrow.”

“You can chop off my head for failing to follow orders with that Vayrian steel sword of yours Lord Commander. It’s better than turning into a wight anyway. For now though, you need me here.”

Only half a dozen men, including Edd Tollett, remained at Castle Black. Jon absolutely trusted these men. Tomorrow they were sending off birds to the scouting party already at the Nightfort, and the men then two days out from Castle Black, stating that Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy were riding out to join them, and to make rooms ready for Lady Stark at the Nightfort. 

Lady Melisandre was with the men moving towards the Nightfort as well. She had wanted to remain by Jon’s side, but Sansa did not like the Fire Priestess; she had heard too many horrible stories about her while in King’s Landing. Besides, there was something unsettling in how the Red Woman stared at her, and then at Jon, and Sansa liked that least of all. So she had put her foot down, and Jon had listened to her. 

Now she got stiffly to her feet. It was too cold at the Wall for her, or maybe she had spent too long in southern King’s Landing, but everything ached here. Her very bones felt frozen.

Sansa bundled up in Alys Karstark’s extra cloak; a woman disguised as a Wildling would not need it, and it had been too heavy to bundle into her bags. The cloak was moon pale and made of heavy, white fir from a white bear – or so the woman had said – and it was deliciously warm. Sansa had taken to sleeping wrapped up in it.

“Come, Ghost,” she said.

Then she followed Steward Tollett out into the dark, mostly empty, stronghold of the men of the Night’s Watch.

Stars still glimmered like remote, white jewels in the sky south of the Wall, but to the north, just visible from the icy base, the sky was dark and ominous; a seething, roiling mass of black clouds, as restless as the Sea.

Sansa shivered.

Steward Tollett opened to door to the winch cage for her and Ghost, and noticed her fear. “Cor, I always find it much more comforting to know what’s coming to kill me than to have it be a surprise. This way you have less change of dying in an embarrassing way. My great-uncle Wyllard, now, he died in an embarrassing way; wrapped around a goat he was and not in a proper fashion if you catch my meaning, Lady Sansa. We think he mistook it for his wife; he was several drinks worse for wear, and the missus Wyllard had a goat-ish look about her.”

Sansa’s eyes grew large at the implication as the car began to creak upwards.

“Of course,” Steward Tollett continued in his sarcastic monotone, “people whose brothers turn into wolves, and whose other brothers talk from trees and come back from the dead, shouldn’t cast stones at a man and his goat.”

And Sansa giggled.

“At least I’ve found a way to make a girl laugh, before I die in a hideous fashion,” he continued implacably. “Probably tomorrow, knowing my luck.”

Sansa just laughed harder.

They reached the top of the Wall, the wind like a howling, angry beast as it shrieked and screamed and tore at their clothes. “Do you miss your family, Steward Tollett?” Sansa asked him politely. 

The small man with the dour expression didn’t even need to consider her question. “Jon and my brothers of the Watch are my family now,” he replied promptly. “Thieves and murderers the lot of them. Kind of like my first family, come to think of it. Besides, you don’t have time to miss anyone else with this lot around.”

Sansa smiled. “That I can imagine.”

Steward Tollett nodded to her. “I’ll just be getting back to my rounds, Lady Stark. I’d never hear the end of it if the Others invaded while I was on duty. “’Edd,’ they’d say, ‘you had one job. Everyone could have spotted a giant blizzard blowing in. How did you miss that?’” And then he took a flicerking torch from a metal sconce under the small lean-to next to the winch cage, and walked off east.

Sansa turned. Ghost bounded away from her.

Jon Snow stood several hundred feet along the wall, almost lost in the darkness. The wind whipped his dark hair and black cloak, and his pale face was set resolutely towards the North as though he was searching for something, or waiting for something.

Sansa walked closer, eyes tracing his features; the set of his strong shoulders, the scruff of his beard, the long fingers in their black gloves where they rested on Ghost’s white head.

They made a striking picture – the highborn northern bastard and the direworlf – all blacks and whites, with Jon’s severe and fair features contrasting with the turbulent sky behind him. They looked like something out of a song the minstrels would sing, and Sansa, to her great surprise, found herself almost fearful at the thought. Jon was her brother, her family. He wasn’t just some song to be sung by people who didn’t even know him.

She crunched through the snow, reached his side, and slipped her hand in his, interlacing their fingers tightly. Perhaps it was an attempt to tell the gods, both old and new, that Jon was a Stark, and therefore he was hers, not theirs. She was Lady Stark of Winterfell after all.

Jon did not startle at her touch. He smiled faintly, continued his ceaseless watch of the North, and held her hand back.

Sansa wondered what they looked like now, her fiery hair mixing his dark, her white cloak next to his black, their hands entwined, as they faced the North with a direwolf beside them. Ice and Fire. Dark and light. She shivered a bit.

Jon turned to her then, his dark eyes studying her face. “I received a raven from Lord Cregan Karstark, several hours ago. His lordship and two dozen of his men will grace us with their presence in a fortnight. He demands the whereabouts of Lady Alys, of course. I declined to tell him the truth by bird, of course.” He turned back to the horizon. “Let him come all the way here before have to return back to the Umbers.” He paused for a moment as he thought. “It’s a shame almost all the men who would have been loyal to Alys and her brother for Lord Rickard’s sake, perished in the Riverlands.”

Petyr Baelish had lectured her quite thoroughly on Lord Bolton’s attempts to gain control of the North on their way to Winterfell from the Vale of Arryn. “The Karstarks were under Bolton command for a while when Robb was King. I’m sure Lord Bolton made certain most of them were in the thickest part of the fighting. And then when Lord Karstark was beheaded, his men were leaderless and turning to brigandry. Most of them were hunted down by either the Lannisters or the Boltons.”

“The old kings in the North should have destroyed House Bolton, stock and stone, the last time they rebelled,” Jon said, coldly and dispassionately. “Too much has been lost because we were afraid to do what was needed.”

“Or at least kept a much closer eye on their loyalties,” Sansa agreed. “It seems to be the curse of our family; to trust those who betray us. Theon, Littlefinger, Robert Baratheon, our bannermen.” She waved a hand around her. “The Night’s Watch.”

“Winter is upon us, and we are not prepared. The White Walkers are coming, and we cannot defeat them. The North is lost and divided, the realm is seething with resentment, and the Riverlands are still torn by war. Father should never have-” He stopped the words as they came, unwilling even now to speak badly of man they had both admired and loved.

“If Father had not been the man he was, our family might hold the North,” Sansa said quietly. She had thought about this long and hard over the years, watching Tywin Lannister and Cersei, Varys and Littlefinger, and Olenna Tyrell. “But if he had not been the man he was, the North would not have loved him. Yes, some betrayed him when they should not, but they loved him, and they rose up for him. They loved our brother, Robb, too. He was good and brave and honest, and he died for it. But the North remembers. The lords and the smallfolk have no love for the Boltons; I saw that at Winterfell. They refused to follow Stannis Baratheon; you told me that, yourself. The remnants of Robb’s army are trapped south of the Neck, and the North waits.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed. But he turned gloomy at the thought and lapsed back into silence. 

‘What are you looking for?’ she wanted to ask him, but she did not dare for fear he would answer with something she could not understand. Sansa had felt no magic in King’s Landing or the Eyrie, but here in the North, at the Wall, she was surrounded by it. Magic was in the very air she breathed and in the ice beneath her feet. She could feel it and it felt cold and hard and merciless; even the weirwoods were rigid and unyielding and pitiless; old magic from an old time, needed to fight against ancient enemies.

And the fire priestess’ magic from the East was dark and terrifying, although she burned hot instead of cold. Sansa wondered if that’s what stories were in the end; tales of men and women who needed to be hard and cold to face something that was evil.

She wondered why no one had ever told her; why she had never seen it before all this horror had befallen her family.

“You’ll have to stay with me in my chambers until Karstark and his men leave,” Jon broke the silence absently, speaking from a great distance.

“What?” Sansa teased, mock scandalized. “In your room? With you? That would be most improper of Lady Stark. And the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” she added after a moment of reflection. And then she almost blushed at what she had accidentally insinuated. 

“Improper, but tactically sound,” Jon averred with a wry smile, but he was looking at her now and not staring off into the distance.

“Come. It’s cold and dark out,” Sansa said, tugging on his arm. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”

Lord Cregan Karstark was a thin man with a receding hairline and a wiry energy about him. His lips were compressed in a severe line of dislike as he pounded into Castle Black with his men behind him. Sansa watched from the window of Jon’s bedchamber as Lord Cregan jumped off his horse and gave Jon the barest of courtesies. Ghost, who stood beside the Lord Commander, barred his teeth menacingly, and Edd Tollett, who stood on Jon’s other side must have said something sharp, for Lord Cregan’s men – all of whom were heavily armed – dropped their hands to their weapons.

Jon waved them off and turned back to ascend the stairs to his solar. Lord Cregan followed him; alone.

Sansa crept closer to the barred door separating Jon’s sleeping chambers from his solar, and pressed an ear to the heavy, oak door. Jon’s quick footsteps sounded on the stone stairs before he entered the room.

“Be seated Lord Karstark,” her brother said, cold and formal, before he seated himself behind his desk. Sansa heard the squeak of the chair. Ghost whined a bit, and Sansa heard two other men enter the room.

“We had hoped you brought men for the Watch, my lord,” Steward Tollett said. “But these seems to have not been the case. As you know, we have sent out ravens to every castle and stronghold that we could. Winter is upon us, Lord Kartstark, and we need more men.”

Lord Cregan Karstark snorted. “The Black Bastard of the Wall needs my men, when I have barely enough men for myself. Well, I have to inform you, Lord Snow,” he sneered, “that you will not be getting a single man from Karhold while you hold my errant cousin in this ruin you are happy to call a stronghold.” 

“And what, exactly, do you want with Lady Alys?” Jon asked, his voice mild but his tone still icy. 

“She is betrothed to me,” Lord Cregan snarled. Sansa grimaced at the thought. Cregan Karstark was a man well past fifty. His father, Lord Arnolf Karstark, had been Lord Rickard’s younger brother. He had died several weeks ago, and the new, aspiring Lord of Karhold, had wasted no time before allying with the Bolton’s in return for Roose Bolton’s support of his marriage with Lady Alys. 

Alys had told her that her only living brother was being held at the Twins still, a prisoner from the Red Wedding along with the Greatjon Umber, Wyman Manderly’s second eldest son, and several other lords. She had feared that as soon as she was married to Lord Cregan her brother would be killed by the Freys.

“Eddard is the only brother I have left,” she had told Sansa fiercely, about the youngest of Lord Rickard’s sons and the one named after Sansa’s father. “I will not let him die.”  
Sansa had known exactly how she felt. 

“I regret to inform you then, Lord Cregan, that Lady Alys married a Wildling Chieftain by the name of Sigorn, over four weeks ago now.”

There was dead silence from the other side of the door. Then Edd Tollett cleared his throat. “She did it in secret, before the heart tree north of the Wall. The Thenns have always been the worst of the Wildlings; ruthless, barbaric, cannibalistic, and utterly loyal to their Chief. This Sigorn fellow apparently wanted a highborn wife. When the Lord Commander found out, he sent the Thenns and Lady Alys away. As you know, Lord Cregan, the Night’s Watch does not involve itself in the politics and wars of the realm.”

“Do you actually expect me to believe that utter bullshit, Bastard?” snarled Lord Cregan, incensed. “Do you mean to tell me that you, utterly lacking in honor as you are, a lying, conniving bastard from that traitorous line of Stark, were not behind this whole thing?”

He was on his feet apparently, for Edd Tollett snapped at him to sit back down, and then there was half a shriek as Ghost obviously got involved in the proceedings.  
Jon’s voice was utterly cold and emotionless. “I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Lord Karstark, “and I would remind you that tough I may be a bastard, I have never been known as a liar. Lady Alys is not here. The horse that bore her left several days ago, and was headed in the direction of the Umbers at Last Hearth. The Thenns left the day before that.”

“And say that I believe you? Say that you are telling the truth; that you did not get involved because of your vows to the Watch. Where then is your sister, Lady Sansa? The last anyone heard of her, she was headed towards the Wall and Castle Black.”

Sansa held her breath as she strained to make out what was going on. Jon was almost utterly incapable of lying, she had known that since this whole plan had started. Technically he had not lied yet, but his face might be giving him away.

“My sister is not part of this discussion,” Jon said, standing up. “Now, I have matters to attend to, Lord Cregan. You and your men are welcome to stay the night, but I must ask you to leave in the morning. The Watch is currently in the processing of moving to the Nightfort, and we have much to prepare.”

There was no way to hide the fact that so few men remained at Castle Black, but Jon staged it so that men came and went from multiple directions and changed cloaks and companions frequently, so it looked like three times as many men were there. Old Dywen seemed to take it as a massive lark, and came up to Jon’s solar to tell him that if he had any more insane requests than he, Dywen, was more than ready to accept. 

That night Jon tried to sleep on the floor before the fire, and gave Sansa the bed. She argued that it was just one night, and that if Jon caught his death of cold on the floor because he was being stubborn, than there was no Melisandre to bring him back this time.

Sansa huddled close to the stone wall all the same, and Jon stayed so near the other edge that he almost fell off in his sleep. In fact, he would have rolled right onto the stone ground if Sansa hadn’t grabbed him. In his sleepy confusion, he mistook her for Ygritte, and pulled her roughly into his arms. Sansa didn’t think she would sleep that night, but after several moments, Jon’s quiet breathing and the warmth of his body gradually lulled her, and she drifted off.

Jon was gone when Sansa woke up the next morning, and he avoided his bedchamber the entire day.

One of Lord Cregan’s men got some sort of digestive ailment, which made Lord Cregan accuse Jon of poisoning his men and demand to stay another night. Sansa watched from the window, utterly bored out of her mind, and mildly embarrassed when Steward Tollett came to collect her chamber pot.

“I’ll bring up some hot water later, Lady Sansa, for a bath. We’ll claim that the Lord Commander likes to be really clean. Lords always have eccentricities. Why, I heard that Roose Bolton likes to be leeched.”

Sansa nodded at that; she had seen it for herself. 

She was all but pacing the floors when Jon finally returned that night. He looked bone-tired. “Why are you not asleep?” he asked in surprise, hanging up his cloak, and eyeing the now, ice-cold bath water from hours earlier.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

“They’ll be gone by tomorrow,” he told her, avoiding her eyes. “Sansa,” he began, after a moment. “I want to apologize for last night. I’m not used to sharing a bed with anyone since…”

“Since Ygritte died,” Sansa finished for him. “I do not mind, Jon. It’s understandable, and it’s no reason for you to avoid sleeping here tonight. With me,” she finished, turning slightly red. “I mean, in the same bed. We’re family…and it’s too cold to sleep anywhere else,” she finished, desperately. She had no idea how to tell him that last night, with his arms around her, had been the first time she had felt safe since Lord Eddard had died upon the steps of Baelor’s Sept. 

Jon appeared to hesitate, but Ghost went over and licked Sansa’s hand. “Edd brought some bones for you,” she told him, and brought out the huge mammoth bone that had been part of the meal Three-Finger Hobb had cooked tonight. The meat had been tough, but Ghost appeared not to care as he grabbed the huge bones and hauled them away from the fire.

Sansa smiled at her brother, trying to keep her movements not in any way uncomfortable. She was wrapped in Alys Karstark’s huge cloak. She pulled the firs off the bed and got in. “Good night, Jon,” she told him, and turned towards the wall, trying to keep still as stone as she waited.

The sounds of her brother puttering about the room, and Ghost’s gnawing must have sent her to sleep.

She was curled up in Jon’s arms when the pounding on the door, and the yelling began. She was warm, and she felt safe, so she burrowed deeper into his side and refused to move.

“Jon!”Edd Tollett yelled frantically, from the other side of the door. Sansa’s eyes flew open as Jon tumbled from the bed, sword in his hand. He ripped open the door, and Sansa saw that Edd’s face was white.

She was up in an instant, throwing on her dress, pulling on her boots, re-buckling her cloak, and throwing winter clothing and rope, a knife, and other supplies she had already prepared, in a burlap sack. Ghost was a tense shadow at Jon’s side.

“Tell me,” the Lord Commander ordered.

“Dywen was on look-out duty tonight, but I had a bad feeling anway, and couldn’t sleep. Found him dead, throat slit, on the wall. Lights are coming from the south, a lot of them. Karstark’s men went to the barracks first, but they found the straw dummies just like you wanted. They’re burning it down, and they’ll be here any second.”

Jon had been pulling on boots. He had already cleared out his papers and packed them the day before. Castle Black had been thoroughly emptied before Lord Cregan’s men arrived, and everyone had been ready and waiting.

“Theon was supposed to be on watch several hundred yards away. Where is he?” Jon demanded.

“Haven’t been able to find him. Hobb and Halder and Jarmen Buckwell are waiting behind the ice wall we built before the tunnel entrance. We just need to know, do we go on top of the Wall, or cross over into the North.”

The sounds of shouting were growing closer. Jon grabbed Sansa’s hand and followed Edd quickly out the door, down the stairs and out the back entrance of the Lord Commander’s tower seconds before the door was broken open by Lord Cregan’s men.

“Who’s coming up from the south?” Sansa whispered, as Edd peered around the corner of the building before signaling the all-clear. “Did they look like Bolton men?” Edd Tollet was from a minor noble house in the Vale, very minor and very low, but he would know a Bolton banner if he saw one.

“They looked like northerners, my lady,” he told her grimly and Sansa turned quickly to Jon. 

“They must have taken Theon prisoner. He’s an heir to the Iron Isles, and if it is Bolton men, or even anyone else, they would want to have Theon for leverage. We have to get him back!”

“First we have to get to the Wall,” Jon told her grimly.

Sansa, Jon and Edd slipped from shadow to shadow. The two Black Brothers knew every inch of Castle Black; they knew where the hidden doors were, the narrow passageways, the routes behind buildings that did not look like they would be passed through, and they led Sansa down them.

The night was cold, without even the hint of a moon, and the clouds hung low and threatening. The wind whipped like a knife, and the torchlight from the Karstark men flickered in its fury. Sansa only caught sight of Lord Cregan once, but he was absolutely furious, and soon gave the order to burn everything.

Fire burst through the windows of the Lord Commander’s tower and lapped at the buildings surrounding the tower by the time Sansa, Jon and Edd Tollett reached the tunnel leading under the Wall. In the days since Jon had decided to move the Watch to the Nightfort, the men had been busy erecting a giant mound of ice and rock in front of the door. They had also filled the entire tunnel with rubble – stone and wood and steel and iron. Jon had commanded that one narrow passage, between the rubble and between the ice-mound and the Wall, be left open.

It was in this narrow space that they found the remaining three members of the Night’s Watch. And Theon Greyjoy, bruised and bloodied but alive, was with them.

“Theon!” Sansa cried, and he winced but smiled back at her.

Jarmen Buckwell, bearded face dark with anger, said, “We saw him get captured by some of Karstark’s men, and thought we’d get him back, my lord.” He paused a moment, and his gruff voice was choked with grief when he continued. “Old Dywen’s dead.”

Jon nodded. “Yes. Edd told me.” He bowed his head. “And now his watch is ended.”

“And now his watch is ended,” they all echoed. Even Sansa.

“He was having so much fun too, the senile old coot,” Hobb said, shaking his head, hands clenching each other.

“At least he had that,” Halder murmured.

“We have only minutes until they think to burn the winch cage,” Jon said. His voice was cold and practical, no trace of grief touching it, and Sansa watched the men stare at him askance for a moment.

“Some need to go on top of the Wall,” Edd continued where Jon had left off, “otherwise we cannot close this tunnel. Someone must cut the chain and drop that pile of ice and rubble to block the passage north. And some need to go North, to make sure that the integrity of the Wall all the way to the Nightfort is secure.”

As one, the men looked down the pitch-black tunnel. The wind found its way even through the narrow cracks in stone, and seemed to search them out just to freeze them. No one spoke for a moment. There was a lull outside, and Sansa shared a look with Jon. They knew that could only mean that the group approaching the castle had met up with the Karstark men.

“It’s now or never, lads,” Edd Tollet said then. “Jon, the Lord Commander needs to make it to the Nightfort, so you are certainly not coming with us. I know you are all but married to danger, but your blade is the only one that will cut that chain. So take Lady Sansa and get up on the winch-cage. I’ll take the rest of this lot and we’ll meet you at the other end.”

“He’ll see them in the winch-cage.” Theon Greyjoy’s voice trembled. “Bolton men will see them in two seconds and shoot them dead.”

“Not if they keep low,” Edd objected.

“We’ve coated the platform with oil,” Jon explained, “and I can jam the lever for the cage. They won’t be able to get to it for a while due to the fire.”

The Night’s Watch men turned away towards the North, nodding to their Lord Commander. Edd stepped forward and Jon clasped his hand. “We’ll light up all of Castle Black and give Dywen a proper sendoff.”

“He would hate to come back as a wight,” Edd Tollett agreed. “We’ll inform you of any structural damage. If we run into any wights, well……I’ll tell myself I lived a long and happy life,” he joked.

“Sansa and I will keep pace with you on top. You have the ropes. Any problems and you climb.”

Edd looked doubtful, but he nodded once more, and turned away. His light flickered for a while, but Sansa and Jon did not have time to watch it die away. Peering around the wall of ice, Sansa felt her face turn pale. There, standing across from Cregan Kartstark by the front gate of Castle Black, was Ramsay Bolton. Her husband.

“Jon,” Sansa got out, her voice strangled. 

Jon shot a quick look at her face. “That’s the Bolton boy?” He didn’t wait for her nod; he knew from her eyes. 

Bolton men spread out, calling to each other as they moved through buildings and towers that were not on fire, searching. There was only one reason that Ramsay would be here personally, and that was if he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was here

Sansa’s first thought was that someone had told. But who?

She crouched low and followed as fast as she could, as the two Starks, and the white direwolf, made a dash for the winch-cage. They made it to the platform, the area around them still dark and unburnt, before someone spotted them.

“There they are!” The shot rang over the roar of the fire, and the howl of the wind, and Sansa felt Ramsay’s pale, cruel eyes fasten on her. She grabbed her skirts and threw herself up the stairs three at a time. Inside the winch-cage were several torches wet with oil, and a well-honed tinder kit. Sansa dove into the winch-cage after Ghost, just as Jon threw the lever.

He drew Longclaw in one, swift motion, and sheared off the majority of the lever, and then cracked the gear that moved it out of positon. The winch-car was already five feet up. He jumped, grabbed Sansa’s hand, and she hauled him up.

An arrow whistled past her ear. Jon kicked the bottom doors closed, and remained low for a moment.

The spark Sansa had struck in the iron barrel had been true, and now a merry blaze was consuming the top of six torches. Sansa grabbed one, stayed low as the arrows whistled through the cage and slammed into the iron door that covered its lower half, and then dropped it over the side.

Jon grabbed another one and did the same. Together they dropped the torches onto the oiled wooden platform below them. 

Sansa did not look, but she heard the ‘whoosh’ of the flames as they spread almost as fast as wildfire. There were screams from the first Bolton men who had rushed the platform and been caught in the blaze.

Her heart was thundering in her chest, and her breath was coming in huge gasps, the icy air like daggers down her throat, but she still did not look. She wanted to. She wanted to see Ramsay’s pale eyes, enraged with fury and impotency as she was whisked out of his grasp; as her brother was whisked out of his grasp. The Boltons would never have any more of her family. Or her.

But she did not look. Part of it was common sense; no one wanted an arrow in the eye. But part of it was that she was afraid. Ramsay had hurt her, and hurt her badly. And there was a part of her that trembled just at the thought of him being so close.

Jon drawing Longclaw again startled her out of her memories. They were halfway up the wall. The arrows were dying down a bit. Three-hundred and fifty feet, against the weight of the earth, was a bit much for most archers.

There was a metal chain hanging beside them. It connected to a huge wooden shelf the Night’s Watch had hammered together from the doors in the unused towers. On it had been piled snow and stones, ice and boulders as big as men. Then it had been hauled up the Wall on a chain from the top. There was a similar one on the other side.  
Jon sliced through it without the barest hint of effort, although the chain was easily thicker than a man. With a noise like thunder, the debris fell through the air and shattered right on top of the ice mound that stood before the tunnel out from the Wall. It tumbled down both sides of the mound, but effectively blocked off the entrance.

It was silent when Sansa and Jon and Ghost reached the top of the Wall. 

Jon jammed the winch-cage’s chain from up here as well, and then they both looked over the edge of the Wall. Far below them, almost lost in the wind and the swirling snow that had started falling from the sky, tiny flames from torches were visible.

Jon pulled a horn from his belt and blew one long, clear blast out into the night air and, from far below, came an answering blow.

Then Jon cut the chain on this side. The rumble of thunder sounded and Sansa wandered back towards the southern side. She stared blankly down at the blazing fire that was Castle Black. The triumph she thought she would feel at outwitting Ramsay Bolton was lost in the much scarier pondering of who had betrayed her.

It wasn’t one of the men of the Night’s Watch who had remained. Of that she knew, if for no other reason than that there had been no ravens left at the Wall for a message to be sent. She was almost positive that her ruse had worked on Roose Bolton. After all, word was that he was planning to march on the Nightfort. And he would have expected her brother to move her to the more tactically defensible castle if he was planning on involving himself in her fate.

So it was most likely not Roose Bolton who had thought to find her here. It wouldn’t have been Ramsay either. Her husband had low cunning, but he wasn’t a man who saw the big picture. He would have believed what his sources told him from within the Watch; that she was on her way to the Nightfort. He would have come for her before he dealt with her brother.

No, the presence of the Karstarks suggested it was someone else; someone who was not in possession of all the facts, and had suggested to the Karstarks that Alys was here as well as her.

Or maybe that person had just used the Karstarks to get rid of Jon.

Sansa felt her blood run cold, and she knew. He knew how she thought; he had been training her himself. He knew she would go to her brother, and he knew that she would not leave him. And he obviously felt threatened by Jon.

Sansa remembered how he had wanted to make her Wardeness of the North. She remembered the kiss he had given her in the crypts despite the fact that she told him she would be married soon. He thought he had a right to her; he thought she was his.

And Jon Snow was a threat to that. 

Sansa had known that he wanted to isolate her, that in a twisted way he saw himself as being her protector and champion. But she had not thought he would see her bastard brother as a threat.

She cursed herself for a fool. “Stupid little girl,” she snapped out loud, feeling Jon’s eyes on her in surprise.

Petyr Baelish, Lord Littlefinger, Lord of the Eyrie, Lord of Harrenhal, and her mother’s childhood friend had proven himself to be one of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms. He had betrayed her father, manipulate her mother, started a war between Lannister and Stark, murdered her aunt, and sold her to the Boltons. She had known that if he ever found out that Bran and Rickon were alive he would hunt them down himself. She had known he was not to be trusted, but she had thought that Jon would be safe; he was a bastard and thus no threat to her claim.

But he was family, and Littlefinger would not allow her that.

Sansa had underestimated him one more time.

It was not a mistake she ever intended to make again.

 

&……&……&……&……&……&

 

Next chapter we’ll visit Asha and the Iron Isles, and then maybe see what Stannis is up to for Chapter Seven. Or maybe Theon beyond the Wall. I’m planning on including at least one Daenerys chapter, several Arya ones, a Cersei one, a Jaime one, and probably a Tyrion. Eventually. Oh, and this is a Sansa/Jon fic – among a lot of other things – if you couldn’t tell. So if you don’t like that…..you can skip over those sections. The story will be focused on many things; war, prophecies, eldritch abominations from the far north, character development, the Starks destroying their enemies (hopefully).


	6. Asha

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! This chapter follows Asha and the Iron Islands. I’m hoping there will be more of the Greyjoys in Season Six. That would be exciting. And yes, I know she is called Yara in the show, but I like Asha much better. Also, I’m really loving the relationships between the Greyjoys. So much drama.

 

&……&…....&…….&…….&…….&

 

Asha

&……&……&…….&…….&……&

 

Aeron Damphair, the youngest of old Balon Greyjoy’s many sons had spread the word from Pyke to Harlaw, from Old Wyk to the SaltCliffe, calling all the Iron Islands to a Kingsmoot, after Balon died and Euron Crow’s Eye, his second youngest brother, had sailed into Pyke and sat the Seastone Chair.

Asha Greyjoy, Captain of the Black Wind, and Balon Greyjoy’s only daughter, had sailed back from Deepwood Motte, which she had taken at the start of the war, hoping to claim her father’s throne as well. But Euron Greyjoy, banished from the Iron Isle for many years, had appeared from nowhere like an autumn storm, and beaten her.

And now Aeron Damphair, the uncle who served the Drowned God, had called a Kingsmoot.

Asha knew why he did it, but it still hurt. She had been hoping that this uncle, at least, would support her. She stood on the walls of Harlaw, the castle of her mother’s family, and stared out at the restless, churning sea. She ached to be back on a ship, the deck rolling beneath her feet, the snap of the sails in the wind, and the call of the sailors as they shouted at one another from the rigging.

Everything was simpler on the deck of ship; she knew exactly who she was there. And her crew would follow her to the edge of the world and back. But on land she was merely Balon’s daughter, the only child he’d had left instead of the three sons he’d lost; two to death and one to brainwashing by the Starks of Winterfell.

Asha felt the salt spray on her lips, the wind whipping her hair, and prayed to the drowned god that her last brother, Theon was dead. She had heard nothing from him since Winterfell had been taken and burned by the Boltons. According to the rumors and reports, the Bastard of Bolton had burned the ancient castle down and killed every Ironborn and northern man within its walls, sending the women and children to the Dreadfort.

But Theon wasn’t just a man; he was a Greyjoy of Pyke.

Asha thought that Roose Bolton would have presented Theon as a bargaining chip already if he had still had him alive, but that did not mean she trusted her brother was dead. Ramsay Snow, who had been legitimized by the king in King’s Landing as a reward for the Bolton betrayal of House Stark, had a terrible reputation. There were stories of what he had done to the Stark girl, his bride, before she had mysteriously vanished during Stannis Baratheon’s attack on Winterfell.

Asha knew that the northern lords were unsure of where Sansa Stark had gone; there were some who said she had been spirited away by Stannis Baratheon to marry his heir, Edric Storm, now Baratheon, in the Stormlands. Others said that she had returned to the Vale of Arryn and her young cousin, Robert, and would one day become Lady of the Eyrie. Still others said that she had fled to Castle Black, the Home of the Night’s Watch, and her last remaining brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow, whom men called the Black Bastard of the Wall.

If Asha was a gambling woman, she would put money on the last one. The way south was perilous and blocked by Bolton men and their supporters. Stannis Baratheon was defeated, his army decimated, and most of the survivors, including the erstwhile king, had signed up with the Night’s Watch to avoid the certain death from the Lannister queen that awaited them if they tried to go home.

And the girl was of House Stark, which was the North. The Starks had ruled there for thousands of years, before even the Greyjoys had landed on the Iron Islands. Asha had heard the thralls in Deepwood Motte whisper that the land knew the Starks, and would only ever be ruled by one.

Besides, Jon Snow was Sansa’s home, and everyone wanted to go home eventually. Asha knew that better than most, even if her home was the sea and the sharp, salt air. 

She also knew that there would be no home here for her if either of her Uncles sat the Seastone Chair. They would marry her off by force to some petty lord before she had time to do more than make a token protest, and take away all of her ships and men. She would be chattel, a brood mare, to mother this little lord’s sons, and they would make very sure that no allies surrounded her.

She would not end her days like that, of that one thing she was certain. She would die like she had lived, with an axe in one hand and a dirk in the other, and the great salt sea around her.

But what’s more, Asha wanted that throne, that great ugly chair that was only ever claimed by the strongest. She wanted to be Queen. She had earned it; she had spent her life earning it. She had forged her own way, and now her Uncles sought to take what was hers away. It was she who had paid the iron price for every step she had taken, not they.

Her mother’s brother, Rodrik Harlaw, came up onto the wall beside her. “I bring bad news,” he said, his craggy face strained and weary. “Victarion has also claimed the Seastone Chair.”

“Of course he has.” Asha was not really surprised; her Uncles all hated and feared one another. All the Iron Islands knew the Euron had taken Victarion’s wife by force on their wedding night. Her uncle had been honor-bound to kill his defiled wife, and Balon had been forced to banish Euron from the Iron Islands ever since. Asha did not know why Aeron Damphair, the Uncle who had drowned and been returned by the sea god, should hate Euron enough to call a Kingsmoot when the Crow’s Eye claimed the Seastone Chair, but it had been a clever move to avoid Civil War. Victarion was Balon’s eldest brother, and Asha his only child. Both had better claims than the crazed, violent Euron Crow’s Eye, and both would press their claim at the edge of an axe when it came down to it. 

But Civil War was the last thing the Iron Islands needed at the moment. 

Her uncle stood at her side, mulling over the prospects before them. “You’re fight is hopeless,” Rodrik Harlaw told her.

“No fight is hopeless until it has been fought,” Asha told him. “I have the best claim; I am the child of Balon’s body. His blood flows through my veins, and he named me his heir.”  
She did not tell him that things were worse than he knew. Traders from Old Town had reported that the Hightowers were amassing a great fleet there, for what purpose she did not know, and Cersei Lannister was slowly rebuilding the fleet down at King’s Landing. Although the lords of the Iron Islands could boast of one hundred ships each, the Lannisters could pay for much more, and the Hightowers were southerners, and therefore inherently devious. 

She wondered if her uncles knew of this, and what they planned to do about it if they became king. It was one of the things that she was resolved to bring up at the Kingsmoot. The Iron Islands could not afford to fight both the North and the South. They would have to ally with one or the other to survive, and Asha was damned if she would see her proud people forced to bow and scrape before those haughty Lannisters.

“If it is put to a vote,” her uncle continued, “the lords of the Iron Islands will not follow you. You, Asha, for all your courage and your strength are a woman, and the Iron Islands will not bow to a woman.”

“I would not have the Iron Islands bow to anyone,” Asha snapped. “I do not ask that they serve, I merely ask that they follow. My father sought to make the Iron Islands great again, after centuries where we became a small, and mean, people. I would do the same as well. We are reavers, Uncle, or have you forgotten. We reap but do not sow. Those are our words.”

“My sister, your aunt Gwynesse, thinks as you do; that she has the better claim to Harlaw because she is the eldest. But where is she now, Asha? Does she rule? Each captain has a vote at the kingsmoot, you know this! But how many will follow you? Victarion rules the fleet, and although a hard man, he is brave and strong and his men follow him gladly. And Euron? Your uncle Euron is crazy enough to saw people to follow him with naught but his crazy promises alone. They say he sailed into Pyke the day after Balon fell from the walls. Men whisper that Balon was punished by the Drowned God for his weakness in holding his daughter in such high-esteem; for seeking to promote her to the Seastone chair. Men say that the Drowned God shows his favor to Euron Crow’s Eye instead.”

Asha snorted. “Superstitious nonsense. You are too well-read to believe such twaddle, Uncle.”

Rodrik Harlaw was infamous in the Iron Islands for his love of books. He employed three Maesters to care for his extensive libraries when it was unheard of for almost any lord in the Iron Islands to even had one. He was known among his fellow lords as “The Reader,” but it was not a mark of esteem. Among the Ironborn it was considered faintly suspect for a man to spend more time than he had to among books and scrolls and words. Those were soft pursuits, for soft men, and the Iron Islands valued only strength.

“Superstitious nonsense it may very well be, Asha, but men believe such tales when the storms come. The winter winds are rising, and this one promises to be a very cold and dark one. The Maesters warn that all the realm is indanger; the wars have brought too much death and destruction, and there are not enough crops to last us even two years. And with the Ironmen still at war with the south and the north, what hope do we have? Even the crops you have brought in from Deepwood Motte and Dagmar Cleftjaw has shipped to use from Torrhen’s Square will not be enough should the winter prove long. We will starve, and the realm will starve as well. Already the snows fall on Winterfell, I’m told.”

“They fall on Deepwood Motte as well,” Asha agreed. “Bear Island, just to the north of the place, across the bay, has been hit with two serious storms already. I sent some sorties out, but the Mormont girl’s advisors have the place well protected.”

Asha was actually quite impressed with the defenses Bear Island had in place. Ruled by House Mormont for centuries, the current lord was actually a lady, Maege Mormont, sister of the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Old Bear Jeor Mormont, and the mother of five daughters. Asha had heard that the eldest, Dacey Mormont, had been one of Robb Stark’s protectors, and died with him in the Red Wedding. The next three daughters were with their mother, stuck somewhere south of the neck.

Maege Mormont and the Greatjon had been sent by Robb Stark towards the eastern and northern parts of the Riverlands, before he had left Riverrun for the Twins and his death. Greatjon Umber had been captured by the Freys in the months following the slaughter of the northern army, but Maege Mormont and a large part of the Umber and Mormont forces had escaped. And vanished.

And little Lyanna Mormont, Mage’s ten year old daughter, defended Bear Island. Asha had heard the letter she sent back to Stannis Baratheon, when he had demanded the fealty of the northern houses.

“If all the Mormonts are as fierce as ten-year-old Lyanna,” she told her uncle, now, there is no way to take Bear Island unless we send Victarion and most of the fleet. The Bear Islanders are too used to our raiders.”

He nodded, still looking troubled. “How many of your captains will vote for you, do you think?” He asked after a while.

Asha turned and gave him a stern look. “All of them, uncle. They would follow me anywhere, and I do not doubt their loyalty. It is the rest that we have to be concerned about.”

Asha and the captains and lords which followed House Harlaw set off for the kingsmoot three days later. The going was fast and hard for Rodrik Harlaw kept horses in his stables and did not disdain them as many other Ironborn did. His captains may not have been any more comfortable on them than Asha’s were, but they all rode, and rode well. 

The kingsmoot was located on Nagga’s Hill on the island of Old Wyk, and it had been ancient and fallen out of use long before Aegon the Conqueror had burned Harren the Black and his sons in the Riverlands, and taken away all the green lands from the Ironborn.

If every captain was a king, then he received a vote and was entitled to nominate himself as king. In the old days, when the Ironborn had been strong and feared, there had been two kings; a rock king who ruled the land, and a salt king who ruled the seas. Often from the same house, and like as not father and son. Eventually there was only one, the High King of the Iron Islands, in honor of the Grey King.

The Grey King was whom all the noble lords among the Iron Born claimed descent from; a great ruler from the Age of Heroes who had sat the Seastone Chair and reigned over the Ironborn for a thousand years. He’d taken a mermaid to wife, the legends ran, so that his descendants could like on sea as well as land, and had slain the great sea wyrm, Nagga, whose bones were turned by the Drowned God into the stony rocks which made up the Iron Islands.

Many of the captains had assembled by the time Asha and the Harlaw men pounded into the ancient round standing stones that capped the top of the hill. The day was strangely muggy, and a fog clung to Nagga’s Hill, wreathing the place in mist and what looked like thick, grey soup.

“Asha!” roared Victarion Greyjoy, who sat just outside the circle around a fire pit, surrounded by his captains and feasting on salted cod and roasted pine nuts, goats milk and the dark bread that was famous among the Ironborn. Asha privately thought that it tasted like sawdust. “My captains were just taking wagers on whether or not you would turn up.” Victarion Greyjoy was a loud, stern, unimaginative man, broad-shoulder, armored, and with his long black hair pulled back from his forehead, showing innumerable scars earned over a lifetime of leading King Balon’s fleet. “Most of them tried to tell me that you knew your place, and women had no place in a kingsmoot. But I know my niece.”

Asha jumped off her horse, cloak flaring out behind her and showing the boiled-leathers and chainmail underneath. “Uncle,” she said, striding over and throwing her arms around him. Victarion, stern and humorless though he was, briefly embraced her back.

“I am sorry for your father’s death,” he told her, bluntly but sincerely.

“He died as he always wanted,” she returned. “He died a king, with the Iron Islands taking back what was stolen from us.”

“Ay, that’s true,” came the emotionless voice of another uncle, Aeron Damphair. The priest in his threadbare black robes and his long, black beard streaked with white, was still handsome, but had turned hard in his middle age. Asha did not throw her arms around this uncle, but she did go over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Father would have been proud of you, uncle,” she told him, aware of how much Aeron had looked up to his eldest brother, and yearned for his approval.

Aeron Damphair gave her a flinty-eyed stare. “Don’t think to butter me up, girl,” he said, harshly. “You may be as un-woman-like a female as I ever saw, and Balon’s seed besides, but a woman has no place on the Seastone Chair. She has not the strength. Her strength is for the birthing room, not the war chamber.”

Asha felt her ire flare at this tired old platitude, wondering how many men could ever go through birthing a child. From what she had seen of men, they tended to brood and moan over every wound, making sure that no one ever forgot their bravery. Asha had never heard a single woman demand such accolade over the blood and pain and death that birthing a child brought in these harsh lands.

“I sought merely to comfort you, Uncle, and share our grief for Father’s passing. And at this gathering I am a captain of my ship, as all know me to be, and therefore am entitled to a vote the same as any other. I am a captain and prince of House Greyjoy here, and not Asha. You would do well to remember that.”

Asha and the Harlaw men set up camp next to Victarion, and Asha made the rounds. Most of the captains already gathered owe allegiance to none, but were raiders and fishermen as the sea called them to be.

Asha greeted most by name, asking after their wives and saltwives, their children and bastards, the fortunes of the waves, and the well-being of their ships.

They answered her fairly, but most were cool and wary, assessing, darting glances between her and Victarion and Aeron. Victarion did not make these rounds. He had once told Asha that he saw no need to know the private lives of his men, as long as they fought for him and kept their honor and pride, what they did in their spare time was none of his concern.

And it was true that all men there knew of Victarion Greyjoy, but Asha held out hope that that did not mean they trusted him to be king.

Aeron Damphair had called the kingsmoot five days after Balon Greyjoy’s death, but the captains and lord only began to arrive a fortnight later. It had taken Asha herself two and a half weeks to move herself and her men back to the Islands, leaving only a small garrison at Deepwood Motte. The Boltons were still re-grouping from Stannis Baratheon’s attack on Winterfell, and the news was that Roose Bolton was preparing to march on the Night’s Watch at one of their castles along the wall.

No one knew why, as far as Asha could tell, or at least, no one was telling her, but she was confident that Bolton would not be marching on her own acquisitions in the green lands of the North any time soon.

Dagmar Cleftjaw arrived two days after Asha, from Torrhen Square. He roared with delight when he saw her, and clapped her heartily on the back. “Little Queen, your father lived and died a good life. I only wish his sons had not died before him. Or his wife, your lady mother.”

Dagmar Cleftjaw was a fearsome old raider, who had followed Theon all the way to Winterfell, fought his way clear of the Bastard of Bolton when he had captured the place, and gone on to take Torrhen Square far to the south of Deepwood Motte. He had imprisoned Lady Tallhart and her younger children, and this had enabled the Ironborn to claim all of the land westwards, which bordered the sea. 

“Any news of my brother,” Asha asked him. Torrhen Square had been the seat of one of Robb Stark’s bannerman, and was much greater and larger than Deepwood Motte. And closer to Winterfell besides.

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Although there was tell of a Reek, one of the Bolton bastard’s creations, who escaped with the Stark girl.”

“I heard that the mountain clans are gathering,” said another captain whom Asha did not know. They were preparing to march on Winterfell to rescue this Sansa Stark, but Stannis Baratheon got there first and the Stark woman vanished. There are rumors that Lord Snow sent Stannis Baratheon west to treat with them.”

“The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms,” Asha reminded him, but even she knew that the Night’s Watch were fearsome foes when the Ironborn raided the Shadow Tower or the lands of the Gift. If Roose Bolton planned to march on the Night’s Watch surely Jon Snow would have to do something, and the men of that Order did not have the strength needed to fight the Lord Paramount of the North. They would need help, and the only ones close enough to do so were the mountain clans.

Asha had heard that these northmen were more Wildling than the soft men of the green lands whom the Ironborn so despised. They owed allegiance to no one but the Stark in Winterfell, and had pointedly refused to send Roose Bolton a single man when he had called the banners in order to fight the Ironborn.

But would they fight under Stannis Baratheon for Lord Commander Jon Snow? He was old Ned Stark’s son after all, despite being a bastard and a Black Brother. And would the rest of the northern lords, who had sent men at Bolton’s call, fight against the Northern clans against the Night’s Watch if commanded?

Asha did not know, but she did know that whoever won, either the Boltons or the Night’s Watch, the moment for the Ironborn to strike was now. They needed to elect a new king and soon, otherwise the time to strike would be lost and they would lose their advantage.

Euron Crow’s Eye was the last of the lords and captains to arrive. He sailed into Old Wyk a fortnight later, when everyone was starting to get annoyed. His convoy of ships, thick-hulled with snapping black sails sporting the Kracken of House Greyjoy, blew a great blast on their war horns as they rounded the bend. Euron himself stood on the prow of his own vessel, the Silence. Asha had heard that it was crewed entirely by men who had had their tongues ripped out by Euron himself.

He vaulted off the deck, landing with a splash in the spray pounding the shore. His captains – those men who had followed him into exile – followed him.

He took the winding steps carved into the very rock of Nagga’s Hill three at a time, coming up on the crest of hill without losing his breath. Spreading his arms wide he took in the silent, assembled multitude staring at him with expressions varying from bemusement to shock to fear. “So nice of you all to wait just for me,” he declared.

And the kingsmoot dissolved into shouting.

Euron Crow’s Eye was a many taller than either of his brothers, with a black patch over one eye from where he’d lost it in some skirmish or other. His face was fair and unshaven, his long black hair pulled back, half up and half down, and a restless energy to him, like a fire that burned too bright. He spotted his brothers standing shoulder to shoulder across the stone circle and strode over to them.

“Brothers,” he cried, jovially, opening his arms wide. Neither made any move to return the greeting.

Victarion stood with his arms folded, his armor gleaming in the rays of the setting sun, and a forbidding scowl across his dark face. Aeron Damphair stood with his hands in the deep sleeves of his robes, and his face was frozen as he stared at this long-lost older brother. Asha, watching her uncles, thought she saw a spasm of something that looked very like fear cross Aeron’s face.

“No love still, I see, even after all these years,” Euron said, mock sadly, in a sing-song voice that reminded Asha of the arrogant young man Theon had returned to Pyke as; as if the whole world was his by rights.

She stared at this stranger levelly as he now turned to face her. Surprise showed in his face. “Not little Asha?” He walked over to her and would have drawn her into his arms but Asha dropped one hand onto her axe and glared.

The smile that spread across his thin lips then was not a pleasant one. “You’ve turned into a beauty, Asha, but you’re still a little cunt, I see.”

Asha’s smile was no friendlier and she made sure to show her teeth. “That may be, uncle, but I would show a bit more respect towards one who may be your Queen soon.”

Euron’s laughter was loud and long and mocking. “The day a woman sits the Seastone chair is the day the Iron Islands deserves to fall and be made slaves to lesser men,” he declared, before moving off to direct his men in unloading what they had brought.

The Kingsmoot started as the last light of the sun left the evening sky. Great fires were raised around the circle’s edge as the captains and lords gathered together to hear who would be king. Three other men put themselves forward to be king. The first was Lord Gylbert Farwynd, whose dreams of sailing across the Sunset Sea were met with derision as being the follies of an old man. The second was Erik Ironmaker, who was so fat that he had to be carried in on a litter by four of his strongest sons. When Asha demanded that he stand on his own two feet before his assembled brothers, the fat man could not, and his claim was met with gales of laughter. Lord Dunstan Drumm droned on and one about his qualifications and bored the kingsmoot half to tears, losing him any support he had come in with.

Then Victarion Greyjoy stood up. Broad-shoulder, fierce and craggy-faced, he looked like a sea lord of old. “You all know me,” he growled. “I am Balon’s eldest brother. I have led his fleet, fought his wars, and defended his people. I have paid the iron price and followed the Old Ways. I am the only man fit to be king. I will lead us to victory against both north and south, and the Ironborn will be feared and honored once more.” His champions, Red Ralf, Ralf the Limper, and Nute the Barber, dumped gold dragons, silver stags, and brightly shinning jewels before those assembled. “This is what you will receive if you follow me.” Then he turned and pointed at his niece and then his brother. “But nothing will you receive if you follow her, and death is all you will receive if you follow Euron Crow’s Eye.”

Cheers followed this, and Victarion looked both pleased and as if he would say more, but he never got the chance.

Euron stood up and began to speak. “I respectfully disagree, brother. Follow me and I will give you the Seven Kingdoms.” He stood before them, still and calm, but it was the stillness of a snake and it entranced his viewers. “I have travelled far in my exile and seen wonders that no one here could even dream of. I have fought monsters and slain demons. I have studied the fire magic of the east, and stolen from the horse-lords of the great plains. My ship has sailed to the Summer Isles and reaped from the lesser men of these weak lands. I have brought back many things and if you follow me –“ 

Asha stood up, tall in the flickering light of the fires. “Foolish nonsense,” she snapped, shouting and drowning out Euron Crow’s Eye. He stopped speaking but gazed at her in malicious amusement.

Asha paid him no mind. She paced back and forth before the assembled captains and lords, her lean wiry frame filled with an energy that held their attention as much as Victarion’s booming voice, or Euron’s unnatural stillness.

“Peace, land, and victory! That is what you shall receive if you follow me.” Her champions, Qarl the Maid, Tristifer Botley, and her cousin, Ser Harras Harlaw, dumped out stones and dirt, leaves and potatoes, corn and turnipis. The Ironborn were silent as they studied these unusual gifts. “I’ll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We’ll have the northmen too…..as friends, to stand with us against the Iron Throne. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my uncles, for more war and more defeat, or to follow more delusions of grandeur. What will you have, ironmen?”

The cheers that this resulted in were huge, and surprising. Asha saw her uncle Harlaw start in surprise, and her uncle Victarion’s face grow dark. His supporters yelled defiance in outraged tones, and for a moment it looked like blood was about to be spilled between the two groups on Nagga’s Hill itself when a low, throbbing, powerful blast of a horn halted them. The horn was so deep and so loud that it made Asha’s ears vibrate. She clapped her hands over them and drew them back in shock to see blood.

Euron Greyjoy pulled back an ancient, black horn from his lips, but not until the very last vibrations had faded out over the sea did he speak. His thing lips were cocked in a half-smile and his eye glinted in cold triumph. “This,” he announced, “is the dragon horn. It was what I was going to show you before I was interrupted by a woman. You all have seen the great comet in the sky, and heard the tales of what it means, but only I know its true purpose. Long ago ancient men woke dragons from beneath mountains of fire and bound them to their will with magic. The dragons are believed to be gone, is what we have been told, but I tell you that this is a lie! And the comet tells me so. This horn will bind any dragon to my will, and I know where we can find three of them. Crown me as your king and I will bring you these dragons, and all of Westeros will be ours!”

There was complete silence for a moment, and then a swell of noise roared up from the very stones of the kingsmoot. Euron Crow’s Eye was declared king by an overwhelming majority, for all had felt the power of the dragon horn, and all had seen the treasures he had brought back, and all had felt the utter conviction in his tone; the conviction of madness, but only the three remaining Greyjoys seemed to realize that.

Afterwards Asha realized that she had never really stood a chance; not against dreams of dragons.

&……&……&……&……&……&

What did you think? Next chapter will go to Theon, back to the Wall, and back to the North, and Jon and Sansa. There will be more of Asha coming soon, and the Greyjoys will be tied in with what’s going on in the North just like they were in the books.


	7. Theon

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! This chapter got pretty dark at times so be warned, but Theon’s seen some dark stuff so I feel like it’s completely in character. I enjoyed writing Theon much more than I thought I would, especially his interactions with Jon and Edd and his thoughts about Robb.

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Theon

&……&……&……&

 

North of the Wall was cold.

Theon Greyjoy had been sure he knew what cold was, growing up first at Pyke, then Winterfell. Life in the North was always cold, and of late the nights had grown long, the snows had fallen as far south as Greywater Watch, just north of the neck, and Theon had been sleeping in the kneels with the hounds. 

He had been Reek then, but he hadn’t noticed the cold because all he felt was the pain. Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, now legitimized by the king in the South, liked giving pain; he savored it like he was drinking the best wine from the Arbor, or eating a tender cut of beef.

He liked the fear of his victims as well – that utter control over their every breath, their every heartbeat. He loved being able to break someone down and then build them back up as someone pitiable, disgusting and weak. And that’s what he had done to Theon Greyjoy. All Theon remembered was the pain, bright and sharp and hot, as Ramsay cut away piece after piece of his body. Scars covered his torso and his arms, his legs and his buttocks, many in strange designs from when Ramsay grew bored and turned inventive.  
But the worst by far wasn’t what Ramsay did to his body – not even when Ramsay had removed almost the entirety of his cock. No, not even that could compare to what Ramsay did inside him. 

Ramsay liked touching him, admiring his handiwork, and teasing him with his fingers; his hot fingers trailing over Theon’s oversensitive skin. At night he would make Theon lie on his bed with him and he would…play. Pleasure and pain. He could make Theon want him with just a flick of his fingers, the change in the tone of his voice. But he never let Theon come – he never let the pleasure or the pain crest – and kept him forever at some halfway point, every nerve screaming, body trembling, as Ramsay whispered in his ear that he wasn’t even a whole man anyway, only half of one, that maybe he wasn’t even a man at all.

“You couldn’t find release even if I let you, Reek,” he taunted, his voice hissing like a snake. “Because you have no cock. All you have is me,” he promised.  
And that was all Theon did have until Sansa Stark came back to Winterfell. She rode through those gates, dressed in black with her long hair dyed dark, her beautiful, womanly face pale and controlled, and she brought the ghosts with her.

Old Nan and her stories. Maester Luwin and his wise words. Mikken at his forge and gruff Ser Rodrik Cassel, from whom Theon had learned how to fight, and whom he had executed…murdered. And made a botch job of it. Cold Lord Eddard Stark and haughty Lady Catelyn, wild, boy-like Arya Underfoot who reminded him of his own sister, Asha, the little ones, Bran and Rickon, sullen Jon Snow, as much an outsider as Theon but loved and accepted by his brothers and sisters in a way that Theon, looking back now, had been terribly jealous of.

And Robb. Theon’s beloved Robb. The king in the North, and the brother he had always wanted; the brother he had betrayed.

They were all gone now, lost or dead, and Theon had helped to do that. He had wanted to be one of them, had wanted to belong to Winterfell and the Starks in a way he had never longed to do a Pyke. And he had messed it all up. In the howling of the wind he still heard the frightened cries of the boys he had butchered, claiming they were Bran and Rickon, and the screaming, pleading face of their mother.

Dead. All dead. All there was now, were the ghosts.

And Sansa. Cold and hard and pitiless as the North itself, she had stared at him with loathing in her eyes, and he couldn’t forget. He dreamed of Robb at night, Grey Wind at his side, bleeding from his chest and heart and back, staring at Theon with dull eyes. A beautiful, black-haired woman stood at his side, her hands trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from her stomach, and her eyes burned into his; ‘This is your fault.’

He had watched Robb’s little sister wed Ramsay, watched him hurt her, and betrayed her confidence when she had begged for his help. He had known there was no escape, known that he was a traitor and a coward; that he had failed everyone and everything he had ever believed in. And there was Ramsay. Ramsay would find him and he would hurt him. Ramsay would take even Reek away and then there would be nothing left.

But Sansa was yelling at him about those boys he had killed. ‘Bran and Rickon,’ she was shouting, shaking him in her fury. You murdered your own brothers, she was telling him. But he hadn’t. He had never killed his brothers; the Starks had killed them when his father had rebelled. But their blurry faces merged into Robb’s and Balon Greyjoy’s pinched visage swam into Ned Stark’s cold grey eyes and unsmiling lips. Your brothers, your little brothers.

And Theon, not Reek, had yelled back that Sansa’s brothers – his little brothers – had lived.

He had taken Sansa and run with her because it was her or Ramsay, and he had to do it for Robb; he had to do this one thing right for Robb.

Jon Snow’s eyes were colder than Ned Stark’s had ever been, but he had let Theon stay and say his vows. There was nowhere left to go anyway, and Theon remembered old Maester Luwin saying a man could earn forgiveness at the Wall; that he could gain his honor back through hard service and sacrifice for the realm.

So that was how he found himself trudging through waist high drifts of snow with four of his new brothers, North of the Wall.

The old Theon Greyjoy would have hated it, but the new one took some perverse sort of comfort at waking up each morning to Edd Tollett’s dour voice saying, Well lads, it appears we’re still alive. I am overwhelmed with joy.”

“At least we’ve got the cook,” Halder would say sarcastically every morning.

Edd would throw him a withering look. “And what is he going to cook? Ice? Your fool arse is on game duty today.” And then he would look up at the Wall gloomily. “Like as not they’ll fall off and I’ll be underneath. ‘Edd,’ they’ll saw when I’m dead, ‘good job trying to save the Lord Commander’s life, but couldn’t you come up with a plan that actually works once in awhile?’”

Jon Snow and Sansa kept pace with them from on top of the Wall. Every night they would light a torch, the fire dim and small seven hundred feet up, and let Edd and the others know how far they had gone. Jarmin Buckwell, who was a ranger and the most experienced man among them at travelling beyond the Wall, led them along the paths the rangers used that past alongside the base of the Wall itself.

“Even two hundred years ago Builders would pass along these parts of the Wall several times a month, checking for structural damage. Now it’s been all but left to wind and the snow,” he observed bitterly.

Halder, who belonged to the Builders, made notes as they went along. As far as Theon could see, the Wall looked to be structurally intact, but Halder frowned and muttered and shook his head a little more each day.

The first six days from Castle Black the weather continued to hold. Snow fell in the late afternoons, and the wind was fierce, but the sun shone and the temperature remained not too far below freezing.

On the seventh day Hobb the cook, whose stews were only passable and who was surely the worst cook Theon had ever eaten from, looked to the top of the Wall and frowned. “Why is Lord Snow moving at the same speed as us? Surely they could go faster. No snowdrifts up there, and I don’t think they have enough food to move this slowly. They can’t hunt like we can.”

Jarmin Buckwell, who was restlessly scanning the horizon, frowned as well. “A lot of debris uo on the Wall in the unused sections. Maybe they can’t move any faster. That wolf of theirs will pick out a safe path though, I don’t doubt.”

Halder was poking at a section of ice on the Wall with his finger, and Edd was several hundred feet ahead collecting buts of bark. Theon knew why Jon Snow was keeping pace with them – to watch the North – but no one had even spoke to him since they went beyond the Wall, not even to give him a job to do, so he kept his mouth shut. Besides, he was sure Edd had figured it out. The glum steward was far tougher than he look, and far cleverer than he let on. And he read Jon Snow like a book at times.

That night he kept watch next to Edd beside the blazing fire as the others slept. He stared up at the stars and the small speck of red and orange glow on top of the Wall which was Jon and Sansa’s own fire.

His throat was dry and parched. “Do you-” he began, but it came out strangled. He tried again. “Do you think they….Ramsay….can see the fire on the other side. Of the Wall.” He felt like a fool but the short steward with his shoulder length hair, receding hairline, and glum face didn’t even look at him. He continued to poke the fire and answered matter of factly.

“Whether they do or they don’t doesn’t matter, and Jon knows that.” He squinted up at the Wall. “This Bolton bastard can follow all he wants, but he has too few men to attack the Nightfort on his own, Roose Bolton is still not ready to march to his aid, and he can’t get to Jon unless he actually climbs the Wall himself.”

This was logical and Theon knew he should have realized it. “Yes, of course,” he agreed hurridly, cursing himself for a fool. Ramsay couldn’t hurt him here, surrounded by his brothers and protected by the old magic of the Wall. But Ramsay had always been able to find him and hurt him, so Theon didn’t really believe it.

Edd turned and stared at him. “This Ramsay sounds like a cousin I had once. Almost made you wish for the White Walkers.”

Theon shuddered. Almost. “What happened to him?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“She,” Edd corrected, “managed to get herself killed hunting with my father and some uncles, when I was twelve. Terrible tragedy.”

A muffled thud sounded off to their left. Edd sprung instantly upright, with his sword bare in his hands. They had come to a part of the Wall where the trees grew within twenty feet of it. Theon felt around for the dirk at his side, tried to still is erratic breathing, and peered through the darkness between the bare oaks and snow covered pines and firs.

“Show yourself!” Edd’s voice cracked like a whip, waking the other men instantly. The Black Brothers didn’t make a sound, just grabbed their weapons. Hobb went for a burning brand from the fire. Edd had a strange dagger made of what looked like black glass clenched in his other hand.

A soft curse came from the trees. 

“Cor, that’s no way to talk about my mother. She was an honorable lady, unlike you,” Edd returned. “Show your face.”

There was a snort from the bushes. “Tollet, I can’t believe you’re still alive. Did your friend, Jon Snow, ever make it back to the Watch?”

A man stepped out into the light of their fire; a man of the Night’s Watch dressed in torn and tattered blacks. His face was as gaunt as a skill and his eyes were dark and wild, but he visibly relaxed as he came towards them.

“Do we know you, brother,” Three-Finger Hobb called.

“No,” the man admitted, “but I know you, Hobb. You make the worse beef stew I’ve ever tasted.”

Halder snorted. “The gods know it to be true.”

“My name is Stonesnake,” the man continued. “I went north with for others, including Qhorin Halfhand and Jon Snow, to scout the frostfangs. The Wildlings and their accursed skinchangers knew exactly where we were and the Halfhand sent me up the mountain side, hoping I would escape to warn the Watch. I was the best climber. Did any of the others make it back to warn Lord Commander Mormont?”

There was silence for a long moment. The Old Bear had been dead for two years already, Theon knew.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Edd Tollett said at last. “Jon Snow’s Lord Commander now.”

The man, Stonesnake, said nothing. Waiting.

“The Halfhand’s dead. And all the others. The Fist was attacked before we could be warned by anyone, and most of the men there died as well. We retreated under Lord Mormont to Craster’s Keep, where mutineers killed the Old Bear.”

“Mance attacked the Wall but we threw him back, and Stannis Baratheon went North and routed his army,” Halder continued.

“Jon Snow was elected and the Wildlings fight with us now,” Hobb finished.

Stonesnake still said nothing.

“The Watch has changed,” Edd agreed. Theon saw that he looked from the man and back off into the dark, silent trees. “How did you know to find us here?”

Stonesnake stepped closer to the fire until he was almost on top of it, then sat down. “I was lost in those mountains a long time, running; from the Wildlings, but also from ….darker things. Eventually I went down underground. There are caves that are said to go under the Wall itself, but I could not find them and I grew lost.” He shuddered. “I will not speak of what I found there in the dark, but eventually I was…led back out, and he was waiting for me.”

“Who?” Buckwell pressed, looking around as if this unknown ‘he’ might still be there.

For the first time Stonesnake looked shifty. “I do not know what he calls himself now, but I will tell of him only to the lord commander, to Jon Snow, and no one else. But I believe him to be a friend.”

Theon and Edd exchanged a glance. They remembered the stranged figure who watched Jon being brought back to life before the Weirwoods.

“Fair enough,” Buckwell rumbled. “We’re to meet him at the Nightfort, and check the Wall for any damage on our way there.”

Stonesnake looked alarmed. “No, we’d be moving too slow. Our cold brother told me that they’re coming, and we have to move fast now or all is lost. Soon there will be nothing left north of the Wall but death. The dead are coming.”

“How long do we have?” Halder cried, already gathering up his belongings.

“Not long enough,” Stonesnake said, grimly.

Edd pulled out his horn, raised it to his lips, and blew one long, undulating blow which bounched off the Wall sending up echoes upon echoes until they reached the stars and Jon Snow.

‘Rangers returning,’ Theon knew.

Stonesnake didn’t look like he could get back on his feet so Theon gave him a hand, and some slives of salted mammoth meat. Halder and Hobb threw snow and stamped on the fire, saving several lit torches, although even Theon knew they were too few in numbers to fight off wights, and that speed was their only defense.

“How far out from the Nightfort are we?” Theon asked.

“Another week at least,” Buckwell shouted, belting on his sword and balling up his extra cloak.

“Personally I always knew I’d die in a terribly pointless way,” Edd observed. “Running seems terribly pointless to me, but it looks like that’s what we’ll be doing all the same.” He raised the horn to his lips again. A single speck of fire was waving on top of the Wall. Edd blew on blast on his horn, then another, and then another. The sound rolled over the trees long and slow and mournful and terrifying. Three blasts for White Walkers. Three blasts for the dead.

And then they ran.

Theon and Stonesnake, the weakest, kept up for nearly half an hour. Then they all dropped down to a fast walk. When the sun rose the next morning, they stopped for a few hours rest. On the third day the sun never rose and no one stopped then. Theon wished they could climb the Wall – the Wall would protect them – but no one had had time when fleeing Castle Black to bring the needed equipment, and Theon knew he’d never make it anyway; the Wall was for strong men.

There were a thousand moments where Theon knew he could not walk another step, a thousand where he stumbled and fell, and someone hauled him back on his feet, or he hauled someone else up.

“Just one more step,” he promised himself. “Just one more.”

It became a mantra, over and over, that he repeated as the wind slowly picked up and it began to snow gently. They didn’t stop to hunt anymore, tearing off strips of salted and dried meat that Hobb had brought with him from Castle Black.

“This was a bad idea,” Edd Tollett panted at one point, when Theon found himself walking rapidly next to the morose man.

“What was?” Theon could think of a thousand things he himself had done which turned out to be bad ideas with the clarity of hindsight. The first of these was leaving Robb’s side to go back to Pyke.

“Going north,” Tollet responded. He squinted up at the Wall. “At least Jon’s up there, with his sister.” He tightened his cloak around his shoulders. “Although when I get turned into a wight I’m coming after him.” He sniffed in an annoyed fashion. The cold was brutal and most of them were congested and Stonesnake at least was feverish. “Serves him right, sending us out here on a fool’s errand to examine the Wall. It’s too late to do anything about it now.”

Theon stumbled on a hidden rock and Tollett grabbed his arm.

“Thanks,” Theon muttered. The old Theon would have baulked at being touched in such a familiar manner by a member of a very minor noble house from the Vale. The new Theon that had been born again before the heart trees north of the Wall baulked at being touched by someone who had faced the White Walkers and helped lead the defense of Castle Black.

The only expedition Theon had led had ended in ignominious failure and the slaughter of all his men and most of Winterfell as well.

Theon looked north. The wind was moaning through the pine trees. “Perhaps they are coming faster than Jon Snow predicted,” he offered up to the Steward.

Tollett rolled his eyes. “Evil things always come faster than we’re ready for them. The gods have a piss awful sense of humor.”

The wind died down to a whisper just as the piercing note of horn sounded from the top of the Wall. Jarmin Buckwell had one of old Maester Aemon’s seeing glasses out in an instant. “Lord Snow’s blowing the horn!” he shouted, just as the horn sounded a second time.

By the time the horn sounded for a third, and final time, they were all running as fast as they were able. Edd Tollett was in the lead, hauling Stonenake after them, who was the only one of them who knew exactly where the door in the Wall to the Nightfort was located.

“How far?!” Halder shouted from behind Theon.

A sound like cracking began to make its way down from the north, and Theon knew that the wind was sweeping down in one fell blast, coming closer and closer. When it reached them they would die like the Wildlings had at Hardhome.

More horns were blowing from the Wall, and as torchlight appeared further along it, Theon knew that they were close.

Faster, faster, he told himself. He was last. Halder was disappearing amidst the swirling snow before him. The wind was so close now, sounding like thunder as it rippled ever closer.

And then he saw it, a round door opening from the very ice itself. Men and lights were inside. Edd Tollett shoved Stonesnake inside and then turned back around.

“Move your arses you fuckers!” he roared over the approaching storm. Jarmin Buckwell reached the entrance, then Hobb, then Halder.

Theon was almost there, the wind nipping at his heels, and Tollett crossed the doorway waiting to pull it closed.

Theon dove, Edd Tollett slammed the doorway shut, and the howling wind barreled into the Wall, shrieking, screaming, and furious. The only sound within the small tunnel that they now found themselves in was the panting of the six men, and the crackle of a torch held by the brother of the Night’s Watch who had opened the door.

Halder was flat on his back, staring up into the darkness blankly. “I can’t believe we survived that,” he said at last.

Edd Tollett hauled him to his feet and slapped him on the back. “It just means that we’re unlucky enough to die sometime in the future,” he told him, as running footsteps sounded down the corridor. 

“That’ll be the Lord Commander,” said the brother holding the torch. “He was yelling from on top of the Wall. We thought he was just going to jump off. The stairs here are still the ones carved into the ice.”

“Slow progress,” Jarmin Buckwell growled, disapproving. 

“Finding wood has been difficult,” returned the Nightfort brother. “And no one likes going north of the Wall.” He gave them all a pointed look.

Jon Snow rounded the last corner, Ghost at his heels. He was running and hadn’t even thought to bring a torch. Theon had no idea how he’d seen where he was going, but maybe the wolf had shown him. He slowed when he saw them, the cold expression on his face relaxing infinitesimally. Theon wouldn’t have noticed the minute change if he hadn’t grown up with Ned Stark.

Jon stopped before Edd but neither of them said anything.

Then Edd said with a straight face, “So returning from the dead means you can see in the dark now? Maybe we should all do it. Should save us a fortune on torches.”

Jon shook his head. “Death would just make you even more dolorous, Edd.”

And that was it.

Jon Snow nodded to each of them, raised an eyebrow at Stonesnake, and then he turned and walked off down the corridor with Edd by his side. Theon hurried to follow, Stonesnake by his side, and heard them talking about the state of the Wall.

Soon enough they came out into the cold again. Sansa Stark was waiting for them and Night’s Watch brothers swarmed around them. The winds howled from the other side of the Wall, but no one had turned into a wight.

“I’ll want your report after you’ve rested, Stonesnake,” Jon Snow said, voice cold and formal. “Buckwell will take you to the Maester for treatment. You look malnourished.”

The man who had held the torched snuffed it out in the snow. “Lord Commander,” he said.

“Rodrik,” Jon acknowledged. 

“A messenger came for you,” the man said, hesitantly. “We held him until you arrived. It’s from Lord Ramsay Bolton.”

Nothing moved in Jon’s face, but there was ice in his eyes, and Sansa’s lips pressed together tightly. Jon did not even look at her.

“Let him wait awhile longer. This Ramsay Bolton has grown presumptuous if he thinks to demand an audience with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch whenever he feels like it. Sansa,” he spoke to his sister, “take Ghost and find rooms to your liking. I’m sure Satin is around here somewhere and can assist you.”

Theon and Edd stayed by Jon’s side as the others quietly left. 

“You’re both tired,” the Lord Commander said. “Go and rest.”

Edd shook his head, stubbornly. “We’ve been through this before, Jon. You need men around you. It’s too dangerous for you to walk alone anymore, even among your brothers.”

There was a flicker of something almost bitter, and filled with regret, that passed across Jon Snow’s face then. “Always an outsider,” he murmured, voice so low that Theon was not sure he had heard correctly.

And then Jon turned and walked to the Wall again. “You just climbed down those bloody stairs,” Edd called after him, but Jon made no reply.

By the time Theon had hauled himself up, arms shaking and legs trembling like leaves, Jon stood on the Wall, the wind roaring around him. Edd and several others stood beside him. Edd looked grimmer than usual, but calm. The other Black Brothers were grey faced and looked almost frozen.

Theon stepped up to the edge. There was something there, some energy that kept the worst of the winds away and that sparked when the wind slammed into it. And there, seven hundred feet below and only a thousand feet from the base of the Wall itself stood……figures. Tall figures dressed in armor, with dead faces, and eyes that blazed blue even from this distance. Around them were men and women, or what had once been men and women. Now their skin hung from their bones, black with rot, and their steps were slow and inexorable as they approached the Wall.

Theon felt his breath come in jagged spurts, his heart pounding erratically, and his fingers digging into the ledge of ice and snow, which was all that prevented him from tumbling down upon the army of the dead hundreds of feet below them.

Jon Snow took a step forward, his eyes fixed on something among the silent line of White Walkers. Theon followed his gaze and saw one of the White Walkers step forward. From this distance he was shapeless, but his armor was different and there was a faint glittering on his head that might have been the spikes on a crown.

“The Night’s King,” Theon whispered, remembering Old Nan’s tales. The Night’s King was the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. On a ranging north he found a woman, as cold as ice and with eyes of blue fire. He took her back to the Nightfort and made her his queen. It took the combined might of the current Lord Stark and the king beyond the Wall to defeat him. He had vanished with his queen, Old Nan would always end the story. But he would return with the Long Night.

The first of the dead reached the Wall, hands raised to begin the climb.

A wave rippled across the surface of the ice, barely visible and tinted just slightly blue. As soon as the wights touched the Wall, they exploded. All along the ice Wall the undead exploded in a shower of bone and dead flesh. The next wave of undead did the same. Wave after wave of wights attacked the Wall, and wave after wave were not permitted to pass.

When night finally fell, Jon Snow was shown to the Lord Commander’s tower and his own private rooms. Sansa was already there. Theon and Edd were shown to their own quarters but they returned to the Lord Commander’s solar in time for Jon Snow’s meeting with the messenger from Ramsay Bolton.

The Lord Commander sat behind his desk, cold dark eyes fixed on the Bolton man who shuffled awkwardly in place before straightening up. Theon recognized him from his time with the Boltons; Darek.

“Lord Ramsay demands the return of his wife, Lady Sansa, and your head, Bastard,” Darek said, haughty and commanding.

“Mind your tongue before the Lord Commander,” Edd Tollett snapped.

Jon Snow said nothing. He said nothing for a long time, long enough that Darek began to look vaguely uncomfortable. “Young Lord Bolton appears to be making quite a lot of demands,” he said at last. His voice was cold and impersonal. “Especially considering he’s an upstart bastard from a lesser house.” He stood slowly, his eyes fixed and unwavering upon the Bolton man. “The Boltons have inconvenienced House Stark for the last time. You return to your master and tell him that if he wants Lady Stark, he’ll have to come for her himself.”

He sat back down and started going through the paperwork on his desk. “Kindly inform your master that any further emissaries he sends will be executed as enemies to the Watch. Also inform him that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch does not take orders from second-rate bastards, and that no order of legitimacy from the Lannister bastard currently sitting on the Iron Throne means a thing in the north.”

“How dare you-“

“Tell the bastard of Bolton that his petty little force is no threat to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Edd frog-marched the man from the room and only then did Jon look up at Theon. “This Ramsay Snow,” he began, his face as still as stone as he watched Theon intently, “Sansa says that he is a monster. Worse than Joffrey. She spoke a little of what he did to you. I need to know what kind of tactical mind he has. Roose Bolton was one of Robb’s commanders, and personally took back Harrenhal. He also orchestrated the Red Wedding with Tywin Lannister, and he is slowly consolidating the North despite the fact that almost all the Great Houses hate him now. He obviously has a strategic turn of mind, but does the son?”

Theon thought about this for a while. Ramsay had been cruel and devious and sneaky. He was able to terrorize people and maintain control of the men who followed him. But he was hot-headed and overly concerned with his image. And he was very sensitive about his status as a bastard.

Theon thought back to what Jon had said to him by way of Darek. “I think that you said exactly what would cause him to come after you personally.”

Jon Snow said nothing.

“On our way north,” Theon continued after a moment, “Sansa and I heard in Mole’s Town that Ramsay had killed his father’s wife, Lady Walda, and her unborn child. Sansa told me that she had taunted Ramsay that a trueborn heir would always be held higher than a legitimized bastard. From what I know of Ramsay, he would have taken her words to heart and…” He trailed off.

Jon Snow watched him unblinking and Theon remembered the quiet, sensitive boy who had been inseparable from his more outgoing brother. He remembered the girl Sansa had been, gentle and ladylike and proper. He remembered the boy he had been, cocky and arrogant and whole.

He wondered which of them had changed most. He as not sure any of them had changed for the better.

That night he dreamed of Robb, standing in the summer snows at Winterfell, with Grey Wind by his side. Neither of them spoke a word, but they stood on the wall, the snows falling around them, until Theon awoke the next morning.

 

&……&……..&………&……..&……..&

 

Let me know what you think. Theon’s relationship with Ramsay is as twisted as Will’s with Hannibal. Let me know if you want to see more of Theon and his remembrances of Robb. I want to add a whole chapter of just Theon and his interactions with Jon and Sansa, but I’m not sure where to put it in so it doesn’t halt the flow of the story. I’m thinking Davos next chapter, but I might stay with Jon or even jump down to Sam in Oldtown


	8. Jon II

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! Per popular demand, Jon is next. This chapter will feature the beginning of the war for the North. As well as a valiant effort on my part to decrease the number of spelling errors. 

Apologies this took so long to be finished. Real life just consumed every bit of time (and extra) that the days offered.

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Jon

&……&……&……&

Jon stood at the window of the Lord Commander’s solar as the black of night ended and the grey of the approaching dawn loomed. As per his instructions, men were already hard at work rebuilding the fortifications. He had given orders before they had even left Castle Black that crews were to start at first light and work until last, until the Nightfort was able to withstand bombardment from even a line of firing trebuchets.

He needed to conserve torches and wood and pitch or Jon would have had them working all night as well. He watched as a large piece of stone was hauled up to the top of the Nightfort’s sourthernmost facing wall. A piece of parchment was clutched tightly in his right fist. It had come by raven late last night and bore Ramsay Bolton’s answer to Jon’s challenge.

It read simply, “I have everything you’ve ever wanted, bastard, and soon I will come to take all you have left.”

Jon had wanted to send a response asking if that included the White Walkers as well, but Edd had told him that even he didn’t find that funny.

Smoke rose from the massive kitchens of the Nightfort, where Hobb and all of his extra helpers were already hard at work on the beef stew, roasted potatoes and smoked eel which was to be their midday meal. Jon stood there thinking, and watching the men work, until a bell rang from somewhere, and all the men save for those on watch along the walls, wandered into the giant – newly cleared of rubble – mess hall.

Jon didn’t move for a long time, not even to pace; he needed to think.

A knock sounded on his door, eventually shattering his reverie, and was followed quickly by Satin. The fair young man had been placed in charge of the ravens since Sam had left for Oldtown. Jon felt a pang at Sam’s absence and hoped that he had reached the Citadel safely with both Gilly and the babe.

“Halder and Jarmin Buckwell have just departed, Jon, but I still don’t see why we couldn’t just send Tormund Giantsbane a raven.”

Jon continued to stare out the window. Sansa was walking with Ghost among the overgrown apple orchard which made up part of the kitchen gardens. Her bright hair was a spark of fire amid the grey gloom of the morning. She paused, bent down and pushed aside some leaves and snow on the ground with her glove. He could see surprise and delight dart across her pale and beautiful face as she found something in the snow. 

Jon leaned forward, forehead almost touching the cold glass, and saw Sansa pull a blue winter rose from the frost-bitten round of the Nightfort. She paused a moment before weaving the bloom into her auburn hair. Then she wandered out of his view around the corner of the kitchens.

Jon had heard the familiarity in Satin’s voice, the slight change in intonation denoting intimacy, or the desire for intimacy. The boy who had grown up in a brothel was always finding excuses to be near him. Jon had seen the adoration and even the desire in the former whore’s eyes, and Edd had told him that others had noticed as well. The men were whispering that their Lord Commander was using the boy for more than just a manservant and messenger.

But Jon had learned the things were seldom as they first appeared and Sansa was positive that someone among the Black Brothers was informing on them to Lord Petyr Baelish, who had been the former Master of Coin, and was among the most dangerous of men according to his sister.

Jon’s voice was cold and distant, overly formal, as he said, “Tormund cannot read so he mus be told to send out scouts assessing Roose Bolton’s movements.”  
Which wasn’t the message Jon had actually given to Halder.

Jon had never liked deception – he had wanted to be just and honest and forthright, someone men would follow because they loved him like they had loved his lord father, not because he lied to them. 

But that was not the choice that lay before him.

And there was an anger in Jon now anyway, a cold fire, and burned in him fiercely. Again and again those he loved had been betrayed and taken advantage of and abandoned. He would not let them take the Wall from him too. The Wall was his. He would not let them win any further. There was the beginnings of a dark delight in him at playing Sansa’s game at rooting out the spy.

Jon Snow wanted to win.

“Lord Bolton has not left Winterfell,” Satin said, sounding mildly confused.

Jon wondered if the boy was really in the employ of this Littlefinger, and if so whether the boy really wanted to betray his Lord Commander, his brothers. He wondered if he would always be surrounded by men he could not trust, no matter how much he wanted to.

“But he soon will,” Jon returned dispassionately, “and Tormund might not fight with us when the time comes, but maybe he’ll give us enough advance warning.”

Jon tapped his fingers gently on his heavy desk. “Or maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “Tormund will take the opportunity to seize Winterfell for himself while Roose Bolton is otherwise occupied attempting to deal with the Night’s Watch.” That would give whoever Satin was reporting too something to think about, Jon thought. And might cause them to bring Tormund into the fight whether the Wildling chief wanted to or not. Jon had no love for tricking people onto his side, but convincing Tormund’s people that Jon and the Night’s Watch was their best bet was much safer than having them being a wild card in his side.

“And what about his son?” Satin pressed. “This Ramsay Snow, or Bolton as he is now? Lady Sansa’s husband.”

“He doesn’t worry me,” Jon said dismissively, as far from the truth as it was possible to get. “Small time brigand with a bunch of hoodlums behind him. We’ll deal with him after we deal with his father.”

‘Confuse and misdirect,’ Sansa had told him. ‘If your enemies don’t know what you’re doing – what you want, what you think – then they can’t stop you.’ She’d smiled a wry smile. ‘Deliberately stop you at least.’

‘The problem,’ Jon had returned grimly, ‘is that we have too many enemies, and soon we won’t know what we’re doing either. We need to deal with them one at a time.’

Sansa had nodded. ‘Who first, then?’

Jon hadn’t even had to think about it. ‘Your husband.’ Ramsay Bolton was the most easily accessible, the easiest to lure in, and had the smallest military force behind him. He was also the most dangerous based on how unstable he seemed, and the effect he had on both Sansa and Theon.

Jon told himself that it was only logic that drove his actions.

“Any other news, Satin?” he asked now. He had no proof that the boy was a traitor yet, just a sick feeling in his stomach.

“A raven came in from Big Liddell and Gendry Storm,” the fair youth reported promptly. “Stannis Baratheon has met with the mountain clans, and he presented them with your  
request. When they heard that it also came from Lady Stark, they agreed to follow him for ‘the sake of Ned Stark’s children.’ Their words. They will march first on Deepwood Motte and then move down to Torrhen Square as soon as the clans are ready. King Stannis…..I mean, er, Lord Stannis?” The boy looked terribly confused on what to now call the former claimant to the Iron Throne. 

Jon didn’t smile. “Lord Stannis is fine.”

“Lord Stannis says to expect resistance from the Iron Born, but it should be easily dealt with. Do you want to see the letter my lord?” Jon waved at him to continue.

“And the Mormonts?” he asked, still as stone. If Satin was really in the employ of Littlefinger, word would reach the Greyjoys of Stannis Baratheon’s movements much quicker than Jon would like, but word could also reach them many other ways as well. 

There were just too many variables. Jon needed to reduce it to a single one as soon as possible. Sansa would deal with Littlefinger, Stannis would deal with the Greyjoys, and he would deal with the Boltons. 

But they needed to move fast – before the Lannisters and the White Walkers – and they needed the North behind them.

And the North would not truly be behind them until the Boltons were dealt with.

Or at least some of the Boltons.

There was another knock and then Edd stuck his head through the door. Right behind him, Jon could see young Edric Dayne, who had travelled with his sister, Arya, in the Riverlands, looking anxious.

Edd waited until Jon looked at him.

“You’d better come,” was all he said.

Jon followed Edd and the former heir of Starfall out into the yard. The air was damp and biting, the sky a dull, pewter grey.

Edric Dayne’s young face had a weariness to it, and a wariness in his purple eyes, which no boy as young as him should know. “I tried to stop them, Lord Snow, but they did not listen. They threatened to turn on me next.” He grimaced, one hand clutching his sword hilt. The scabbard was ornate, as befitted a squire of House Dayne, but it was worn and rusted and fraying.

‘Just like us all,’ Jon thought grimly, of the Night’s Watch, worn and rusted and fraying – made up of murderers and thieves, fallen nobles and bastards, outcasts and men on the wrong side of a war. Ghost appeared silently by his side, and Jon hoped Sansa had returned to his rooms by now. For all that she had been through, at times she seemed to Jon as green as summer grass.

They turned the corner into the archery yard and Jon saw at once what the problem was.

After Jon had placed him with the Stewards, Theon Greyjoy had been assigned to help Hobb in the kitchens. Hobb had obviously sent him out to the men at archery practice with hot, spiced mead and apple cider, because the tankards lay spilled upon the ground.

Theon lay upon the ground as well, curled in a fetal position and trying to minimize the target he presented, as the formerly practicing archers kicked him and hurled both mud and animal dung at him. Jon recognized Ulric and Syrol and fat Lyrek from the Crownlands, as well as new recruits and some of Stannis’ former men.

“Half-man,” they shouted at Theon.

“Eunuch,” others cried, and “Whore. Ramsay Snow’s little bitch!”

For a moment, just a moment, Jon wanted to leave them to get on with it; for Bran and Rickon, Maester Luwin and Mikken and Old Nan. For Rodrik Cassel and Winterfell and Robb. Theon Greyjoy was more of a liability than he would ever be an asset to the Night’s Watch as far as the Realm was concerned. Like Stannis Baratheon, he was an heir that those in power wanted to see dead.

Then Jon stepped forward, snapping his voice out, cold and furious. “What is the meaning of this?”

Most of the men immediately stopped in their assault and backed away. Two of them – new recruits, Jace and Korak – did not.

“You little snitch,” snarled Jace at Edric Dayne.

“Ghost,” Jon said quietly. He wouldn’t have even needed to say anything; he could feel Ghost, eager and bloodthirsty, just as Jon himself was. Jon pushed that feeling away ruthlessly, and made himself rigid and stern. Ghost darted away from him, quick as shadow, too fast to stop, and ripped out Jace’s throat. Korak made to turn and run, but Edd was there, shoving him back in Jon’s direction.

“Did you not hear the Lord Commander?” the dour squire snapped. “Or are you just too stupid to listen?”

Several other Night’s Watch men began to drift in. Edd shoved Korak before Jon. The man stood, glaring down, furious and sullen and just the slightest bit fearful.

Jon’s face was stone. “You raise a hand against a sworn brother again and you’ll lose the hand. You incite violence against another brother and you’ll lose your tongue. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

He turned back to the gathering men in black. “We do not have time for this. Against what waits beyond the Wall, we are all on the same side. We need every man and woman to fight with us. And anyone, anyone, who threatens that will be dealt with without mercy.”

“You’re not a king, bastard,” snarled Korak. Jon could see other faces who looked as angry as the big man did. “There is a limit to how much we will take. We’re all equal here. We elected you, and we –”

“And then you killed me,” Jon interrupted, as passionless as ice.

“Didn’t work,” Edd put in helpful, and someone snorted in amusement.

Jon could see that Korak would only bring trouble. “Theon,” he commanded, “get up.”

Greyjoy rose shakily to his feet. His face was a mess and his hands trembled, but neither arms nor legs appeared to be broken.

“How are your hands?” Jon knew his voice sounded as cold as his father’s. Ned Stark had told him once that in times of hardship a lord had to maintain control of his men, even if he needed to be harsh. Otherwise, instead of one man getting killed, they all would.

“My hands, Snow – Lord Snow?” Theon sounded confused.

“Ulric, give him your bow. Edd, Dayne, escort brother Korak over to the archery butt farthest on the right, and stand him in front of it.” Jon fixed Korak with a cold look. “You move and I’ll kill you myself.”

Korak and Theon both looked equally grey-faced, as Edd and Dayne marched Korak over. 

“Hit the target, Greyjoy, and not the man,” Jon said, picking up a quiver of arrows and passing it over to the man he had grown up with.

Edd shifted beside him, but didn’t say anything. 

Jon studied Theon’s haunted eyes. “You’re in Winterfell and Robb is beside you.” Oh how Jon wished it was true. “You wanted to show him you’re better than me; that you would make a better brother than I ever would. I could hit that target. Can’t you?”

Theon’s startled gaze me his. Yes, Jon had always known what Theon truly wanted. The arrow whoosed from the bow, embedding itself right next to Korak’s eye. Theon fired again. Again his aim was perfect.

The practice yard was silent, save for the ever present northern wind, and the sound of Korak wetting himself.

Jon’s voice didn’t change. “Even broken, this man is worth more to me, is more useful to us all in the wars to come, than you are, Korak. Perhaps you should concentrate on your training instead of aiding our enemy.”

Jon turned away.

“Get back to your duties, Greyjoy,” Edd ordered. “I expect you in the practice yards tomorrow to help with archery training. And Ulric, start instilling some discipline. You’re the senior ranger here. If this happens again, you answer to me.”

Edd caught up with Jon. “You knew he could do that?”

Jon looked up at the windows of his chambers. Sansa was staring down at him. She tilted her head and Jon turned to find Melisandre right behind him.

“Seven hells, don’t do that!” Edd shouted. “You want to kill me before the Wights do?”

Melisandre fixed her unsettling red eyes on the steward, causing Edd to take a quick step back behind Jon.

“That was well done, Lord Commander,” she said in her melodious voice. Jon could feel the power in her, dark and hot and twisting, burning her on the inside. He thought it best to treat her with respect for the moment.

“Either way I won,” he agreed.

“The Lord’s fires have shown me that you intend to leave soon to deal with an enemy.” She had too much intelligence to mention who that enemy was, for which Jon was grateful.

“We have many enemies at the moment,” Jon answered, looking back up to the window, but Sansa was gone.

“You have only one enemy, Jon Snow, and his agent is closer than you think. He has deceived me for years, and soon he will deceive you. You should deal with him before it is too late.”

Edd frowned. “Who is she –”

“Stannis,” Jon said wearily. Melisandre had been pushing for him to execute the former Baratheon king for weeks now. He fixed the Red Woman with all the coldness his death had left in him. “I have told you once already, Lady Melisandre. You make a move against Stannis, you make a move against me. You claim that I am the Lord’s chosen, so you will do what I say or I will have no further use for you.”

He left her there, defiant still. He knew she would bring trouble sooner or later, but Jon had larger problems to worry about at the moment. Edd kept pace with him, and Jon wondered what his friend thought of him – the Lord Commander – and how ruthless he was willing to be. He wondered if even Edd would fear him someday, or come to hate him. He wondered what history would think of him, the Black Bastard of the Wall, the man who had betrayed every Night’s Watch oath that there was – had loved a Wildling woman, killed Qhorin Half-hand, allied with the very barbarians the Night’s Watch had sworn to defeat, and gotten involved in the wars of the Realm.

He wondered if they would strike his very name from the record as they had the Night’s King. He wondered if anyone would see the irony in that.

‘It does not matter,’ Jon told himself, ‘how men remember me after my death. All that matters is what I do, right here and now.’

He took a deep breath. He could do this. ‘But what does it matter,’ Jon heard Ygritte’s voice on the wind, ‘for all men must die.’

And he remembered something else she had said once about one of the Wildling kings whom she claimed fathered a Stark of Winterfell. ‘Bael wrote his own songs, and lived them.’ Maybe Jon would live his own songs too.

Stonesnake nodded at him as he went passed with Tiny Hal and Qorath who had been one of Stannis Baratheon’s sellswords to take the black.

Stonesnake had refused to leave Jon’s side when he had entered the Watchman’s pass three night’s ago. He had been weary and emaciated to the point of death, and Jon had been worried about his sanity when the man began to speak of the half-dead brother on the pale stag who had once been Benjen Stark.

But Jon had seen a glimpse of him when Melisandre had brought him back with her fire. And the night Stonesnake and the others had returned, he dreamed of falling snow and screaming men, and his uncle touching a Walker and waking up cold with blue eyes, but still a man – still Benjen Stark.

He had not been sure whether it had been a tree-dream or born of his own imaginings, but Bran had been there all the same.

“The Horn,” whispered the red-eyed tree in his dream that bore Bran’s face, and so the next morning he’d gone up to the rookery to send a letter to Roose Bolton and the ravens had screamed at him, “The Horn, the Horn!”

Mance Raydar, the dead King Beyond the Wall, had searched for the Horn of Winter and believed it to have the legendary power to bring down the Wall itself.  
Jon and old Lord Commander Mormont had been skeptical, for after all, why not have used it before. Surely the Free Folk would have blown it thousands of years ago, and escaped south if they possessed such a power. Why hide it in the earth?

But Maester Aemon had been fascinated to learn that Mance believed the old tales to be true, and Jon knew that the old man had been wiser than Jon was ever likely to get.  
Jon himself had been less fascinated and more annoyed that such a thing had been left North of the Wall when there was an army of undead and White Walkers looking to get passed the Wall by any means possible. Edd had shared his sentiments, but they had agreed that at this point they had no idea where to look, and no one they could afford to send.

“That Horn will come back to haunt us,” Edd had remarked gloomily. “The Wall will fall and they’ll blame us for it somehow. You mark my words.”

“Not if my uncle finds it first,” Jon had said. He got a thrill every time he thought about Benjen Stark. Somewhere out there, his uncle was still alive, still fighting. Like Bran, and Sansa, and hopefully Arya and Rickon as well. “Besides,” Jon had remarked prosaically, “they’ll be none left to blame us if the Wall falls.” And they had relapsed into silence.  
But Jon, despite his own words, felt hope. He knew that he would see his uncle again.

“Keep going, Jon,” Benjen Stark had told him through Stonesnake, and Jon Snow knew that he may be cursed by men for being a bastard, a traitor, a turncloak, but he was not yet alone. His brothers still stood around him, and his family had not been truly taken from him; not all of them at least.

Jon looked up at his windows and saw the warm, golden glow of candlelight, and he knew that Sansa was there.

“You coming to dinner before we leave, Jon?” Edd asked him.

The sky was already darkening, although it was scarcely passed mid-day. Jon looked at Edd’s glum, red face – frost bitten in the glow of a passing torch. Edd was the only one of his brothers to still call him Jon. Maybe Sam would, if he was still here.

The Red Priest, Thoros of Myr, was speaking in low, hushed tones with a man Jon had heard called Tom Seven Strings. Jon knew he should join them, sit with his men and listen to their talk and complaints and opinions. His lord father always told him that a leader must know the men commands.

Jon looked up at the golden glow of candlelight again and shook his head. “I’ll get something to eat later.” 

There was something in Edd’s face that Jon could not place as he nodded and walked away, but Jon soon forgot it as he climbed the stairs two at a time, passing Satin coming down and with Ghost bounding at his heels. He failed to knock, just pushed open the door, and it was only Sansa’s cry of alarm that alerted him that a noble man should always check before opening a door wherein a lady resides.

“Jon,” she shrieked, “avert your eyes.” And then Jon slammed right into her. The heavy oak door boomed shut behind them, and Jon automatically grabbed for his sister before they could both topple over. She had obviously just taken a bath, for her hair and skin were wet, and the only clothing she wore was a thin robe. Beneath his hands she was warm and soft, all womanly curves, and firm breasts. He felt her hands fisting in the leather of his jerkin, her warm breath on the cold skin of his neck. 

She smelled like pine soap and something sweeter, something uniquely Sansa.

His hands twitched, wanting to pull her closer. Her lips were grazing his skin. 

And then Jon all but shoved her away, noticing wide blue eyes and parted lips before he fixed his gaze outside the dark windows. Ghost made a keening sound. “I beg your pardon, sister,” he told her formally, aware that his voice had gone absolutely frigid. “It was unconscionable of me. I should have remembered to knock.”

“These are your chambers, there is nothing to apologize for,” Sansa returned, sounding as though all the wind had been knocked out of her. “I just didn’t want to lock you out of your own rooms. And I was finished anyway.”

There was silence then, save for the crackling of the fire in the grate. After a moment Sansa shifted in place and gave a short laugh. “How foolish,” she murmured. “We are family, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She moved over to the screen in the back of the room and stepped behind it. Jon watched her out of the corner of his eye, unable to help himself. The light material clung indecently to her figure, and where Ygritte had been lean and muscled and boyish, Sansa was full and soft and womanly; two very different women, but both so beautiful.  
Jon cursed himself for a fool, and moved resolutely over to his desk. “We’ll be leaving soon,” he told her.

Sansa went and sat by the fire after she was dressed, slowly brushing her long hair until it steamed and crackled in the blaze. Her blue eyes, calm and icy, so startling from the wide-eyed girl he remembered, held his own. “You will come back to me, brother,” she told him, as though it was certain.

A fortnight later, Jon Snow crouched behind a snow covered tree in the northern most part of the Wolfswood that ran south all the way to Winterfell. Around him were 100 men of the Night’s Watch; Edd and Halder, Stonesnake and Thoros of Myr, Edric Dayne, Tom Seven Strings, Qorath, Theon Greyjoy, Ulric, Jarmin Buckwell, Korak who was still shooting wary eyes at his Lord Commander, Iron Emmett from Long Barrow, and many others.

Before them lay a camp filled with Bolton men. And beyond, to the west, and the rolling hills of the north, Jon could still see the smoke rising from the burned hovels of Tormund’s people.

Jarmin Buckwell and Halder had told him that Tormund and his people were long gone by the time Ramsay Snow and his band of murderers got there, and Jon could only hope that such a blatant attack by the Bolton heir would convince Tormund and his people of the need to counterattack before the night was done.  
But he dare not wait. A fortnight was already too long. For all he knew, someone back at the Nightfort had already sent word to Roose Bolton of his movements, and Ramsay would soon receive a messenger from his father.

So it had to be tonight.

The Night’s Watch had spent hours getting into position, moving past the sentries, settling in among the low-lying shrub which inhabited this part of the Wolfswood; covered with snow and aided by darkness.

Jon smelled snow and pine needles and hot stew, and saw the weirwood trees, pale as bone, in flickering of the campfires. He wondered if Bran and his crows were watching him, aiding him. He hoped so.

These Bolton men, for all that they were northerners, were green as summer grass. Many of them had obviously been fighting and marauding in the Riverlands, for no true northerner would have been taken unawares as they were. The Night’s Watch were used to fighting the Wildlings, who knew every inch of their land, and whose wargs would spot any unfriendly movement for hundreds of miles. 

Ramsay Bolton’s men were indolent and petty, lording over their small victory of burning newly-built Wildling hovels. After the ale had been drunk, when the arrows began to fall about them, it took them took long to realize what was happening. 

As the screams began, and the clash of swords, the whisper of arrows, Jon attempted to reach the Bolton heir. He had seen him, at the beginning, their eyes locking as recognition dawned in those pale, dead blue eyes of Jon’s enemy. But then, in the fray, Jon had lost him. Somewhere a campfire had been kicked and sparks had lit up one of the fir trees that stood too close.

Soon the woods were ablaze.

Jon killed the men in front of him, searching, always searching. Dimly he felt Edd and Theon Greyjoy keeping pace with him. Distantly he heard the roar of Tormund Giantsbane, and then Edd was shouting, “Jon, it worked! The crazy bastard’s flanked ‘em!”

There was movement out of the corner of Jon’s eye, and he turned, shoving Edd aside just as a dark arrow with black feathers embedded itself in Edd’s shoulder. It should have been his throat. Ghost was not here. Jon would not leave his sister unguarded, and so it was Jon who leapt at the Bastard of Bolton, Longclaw gleaming in his hands.  
Bolton’s next arrow was off, embedding in Jon’s leg. Fire ran up his thigh as his leg buckled, but Jon raised his sword, Valyrian steel slicing cleanly through yew as the string snapped and the bow dropped, useless at Ramsay’s feet.

With a snarl the man drew his own sword. Steel met steel, singing as they exchanged blows. Around them men were screaming and bleeding and dying. The weirwood trees were howling and the flames rose ever higher. A Bolton man attempted to strike Jon from behind, but Edd was there, and Thoros of Myr who had found a flaming sword from somewhere and was slashing about with a madcap grin on his face.

But Ramsay used that moment his man had bought for him. A short dagger buried itself through the leather skirt of his armor, deep into Jon’s other leg, and he was stumbling, falling, the earth rushing up to meet him. Fire licked the edges of the nearest weirwood tree, and Jon thought he saw Bran yelling at him, screaming for him to get up.

Jon was bleeding from the mouth. Somewhere along the way, Ramsay must have hit him right in the face. He turned, dragging himself along the ground. Longclaw was only several feet away.

Ramsay was laughing amidst the flames, not even trying to kill Jon at the moment, but kicking him viciously in the side.

Jon felt the leather of his glove touch Longclaw, felt Ramsay slam his boot onto that hand, knew something broke. Jon forced his right leg, the one with the arrow in it, to move, kicking hard into the back of Ramsay’s knees. The man stumbled, released Longclaw, and then an arrow buried itself in his throat.

He gurgled, eyes widening at what he saw behind Jon. Jon, flat on his back, hauled up Longclaw and, as Ramsay fell, let the force of that fall drive him straight onto Jon’s blade. Laboriously he dragged himself to his knees, pushing harder and harder, shoving the bastard backwards until Ramsay Snow fell to the ground, impaled to the hilt on Jon’s blade.

Jon leaned over him, never saying a word, until the last light had left those dead blue eyes. He felt Theon Greyjoy come and stand by his side. Jon wanted to say ‘Thank you’ to Greyjoy for the first time his life, wanted the other man to know that he understood the courage it had taken to follow Jon and face the man who had broken him viciously and without mercy, but he found he could not say a word.

The fires rose and Jon coughed blood, as Theon and Edd hauled him up and away from the inferno. The last Jon saw of Ramsay Snow, the fire lapped at his feet and the weirwoods at his head wept red tears done their bone white faces.

&……&…….&……&……&……&

Sansa’s up next. And then Asha. I tried to imitate G.R.R. Martin’s way of writing battle scenes, which is very minimalist. Let me know if you want more blood and gore or not. I have to get back into my Game of Thrones mindset. I’ve been in a Black Sails mindset the past month, which should become very evident in Asha’s chapter haha.


	9. Sansa III

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! My computer decided to erase the entirety to this chapter two separate times in one of its ‘installing updates’ phases. Hence the major delay. Also, Happy Valentine’s day, and in honor of it……well, just read and tell me what you think. 

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Sansa

&……&……&……&

Sansa dreamed she was a bird.

Far up above the clouds she flew, where the golden rays of the sun warmed her feathers and the snow never fell.

Sometimes she was an eagle, sometimes a sparrow, and sometimes even a crow, but she was always a bird. 

The best dreams were the ones when Jon ran with her; his white wolf far below her as a pale gleam amidst the snow. Her eyes were so keen as a bird that she could always see him, and often she soared as close to the ground as possible, weaving around him playfully, as they ranged farther and farther from the Wall before the first light of day forced them to return.

Some nights they would range east and sometimes west or south, but Jon and Ghost could not go north, and Sansa dared not go alone. As she grew stronger and more confident she flew ever higher, until at last she could fly above the almost ever-present clouds. Underneath the moonlight and the starlight, Sansa felt as if she had returned to the Eyrie again, as if she were on top of the world, and all the horror below her was but a distant memory.

Sansa would open her eyes in the morning to find Jon’s dark gaze upon her. At the beginning it was his solemn, watchful eyes that anchored her, that reminded her she was Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North, and the sister of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. 

In the beginning Jon’s patient, wary eyes were the only reason she wanted to return to being Sansa Stark. But as she grew more skilled at directing the dreams, she reminded herself over and over why she was doing this, and it grew easier to return to herself. 

They never spoke of the dreams during the day, except once. Jon had been at his desk, Edd handing him pieces of paper for him to sign, while Sansa stood at the window in the bright sunshine and watched the sky.

It had been a week before he departed south to track Ramsay Snow, her estranged husband, and one of the very rare days when the sun shone down on the Nightfort. Even the roughest, most curmudgeonly, most murderous man in the Watch seemed uplifted with the golden rays sparkling off the white snows around them. She could hear them singing and calling to each other over the hammering and smelting and sword training. Sansa herself longed to be out there, souring above those pale wisps of cloud that darted across the sun like the faint touch of a lover’s kiss. 

She had not felt Jon’s gaze upon her until he spoke.

“Never fly close to the Nightfort, Sansa,” he said. His voice was as cold and severe as always. Sansa remembered him laughing with Robb back at Winterfell, and the sly smiles he would exchange with Arya. Those two had always been as thick as thieves, sharing a language that no one else was a part of, and no one else was allowed into.

Sansa had told herself that then that Jon was a bastard, no true brother at all, and that she was a close to Robb as Arya was to Jon. But the truth was she was the outsider amongst her siblings, more Tully than Stark, more South than North. It was only when she actually went south, that she learned how to be a northerner. 

It was only now, after she had discovered the Stark within her, that she could hear the warning and concern in Jon’s voice. “You’re worried about someone here,” she said, studying him carefully. The only name that sprang to mind was that of the Red Woman. Sansa had seen her power but did not understand why Jon would fear it in relation to her. “Why would Melisandre care about my dreams?”

“Our dreams,” Jon corrected her quietly, “are not just dreams. As you well know.”

“The Red Woman has demon magic, the men whisper,” Edd Tollett confided in his glum voice, “and no love for strange Wildling powers, wargs and such-like.”

“When Stannis attacked Mance Rayder’s army his approach took the Wildlings completely by surprise. This should not have been possible because Mance had skinchangers amongst his fighters, and not even the White Walkers could surprise him. And during the battle I watched as birds burned in mid-air and the skinchangers went mad and died with them.”

Jon stood up and walked to the window, his hands behind his back and his shoulder just brushing Sansa’s. He looked like he was about to speak again but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the glass.

“Torgred’s drunk again,” he muttered. There was a loud crash. “And just let the rope go. Again. He’s going to get someone killed.”

“I could put him on latrine duty, I suppose. Hard luck for a man to be shunted to the end of the world, and then given latrine duty. I always supposed that would be my lot in life,” Edd said. He paused a moment, then added, “I had an aunt once who had to dig a new latrine every two months. If the gods had any justice in this world, they would have sent her to join the Watch.” He walked up to Jon’s other side. “Although if they had, we’d be eating her cooking here too and Torgred would be on latrine duty all the time.”

Melisandre walked by below them. She was a beautiful woman, Sansa had seen that from the first, with all of Queen Cersei’s commanding presence, and all of Lord Petyr’s simmering rage and madness urking just beneath the surface. Sansa wondered if Jon could see the madness in her, or if he was blinded by the beauty like most of the Night’s Watch seemed to be. Cersei Lannister had once told her that men were attracted by power as much as they were by beauty.

“Lady Melisandre,” Jon said quietly to Sansa, as the woman in question stopped and looked up at them from below, her gaze eerily calm, “has no love for the north or its people. She would burn the heart-trees and the godswood at Winterfell. She would burn the wolfswood and turn the places sacred to the Children of the Forest into a temple for her Red God. I do not know what she would do if she knew what we both were.”

“How could she not know,” Edd said, shooting an incredulous look at Jon. “You’re always with that wolf. She’d have to be completely blind. The entire Watch knows. I’m fairly certain the Lannisters in Kings Landing know the Starks turn into wolves and kill their enemies.”

Sansa shot a look at her brother. He looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, and she stifled a laugh. 

“We still don’t want to give her any further incentives,” he stressed, and Edd shuddered.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “Do you think she can die by mortal means, or do you suppose she’s as unkillable as a wight?”

To that, neither Jon nor Sansa had an answer.

Sansa remembered this as she soared above the clouds and directly above the Nightfort. Jon and his men had left mere hours ago. The first ravens issuing orders from the Nightfort would fly soon with Jon’s final orders. And so Sansa waited.

She was good at waiting; she’d had a lot of practice.

She tried to rest lightly in the bird’s mind, but often this would cause her to almost slip out of it, so eventually she let go and only kept a part of her mind active to make sure she stayed within view of the Nightfort. She had chosen a falcon today, for its keen eyesight. She would need it for what she had in mind. 

Sansa had had much practicing judging men and women both at King’s Landing and at the Eyrie, and she had been wrong so many times that she had learned to look beyond her own pre-conceptions. Olenna Tyrell had taught her that age and gender were no true guarantee of helplessness, Cersei Lannister had taught her that beauty was no guarantee of goodness, and Petyr had taught her that low birth was no guarantee of either low ability or lack of ambition. And her father and brother had taught her that goodness and right action were no guarantee of victory. 

So Sansa watched each man around her very carefully. She listened very carefully, and she judged them very carefully indeed.

The men Jon had taken with him would have no opportunity to betray his plans to anyone, least of all Petyr Baelish. For that, this betrayer would need to use a raven to get a message to the Warden of the East, the Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn.

The Baratheon men were divided into three camps, as far as Sansa could see; those who feared and followed Melisandre, those who loved Stannis, and those who were out to save their own skins. None of them, as far as Sansa could see, would have the motive or opportunity to betray her brother to Littlefinger.

The rest of Night’s Watch was more complicated. The northerners were loyal to Jon because he was Jon, but also because he was a Stark. Tyrion Lannister, her former husband, had once told her that loyalty to House Stark was all but in the bones among the northerners. “It’s what happens when you have a ruling house for over eight thousand years,” he had quipped mockingly to his sellsword within Sansa’s hearing once. “Not even those who dislike them can truly imagine the place without them.”

So Sansa looked to the southerners. But no matter how long she looked, Sansa could see no one with greater motive or opportunity than Satin. The boy was loyal to her brother; Sansa even thought that his loyalty ran deeper than that. She saw glimmers of Loras Tyrell’s devotion to Renly Baratheon in Satin’s worship of Jon Snow. 

It had been Shae, Lord Tyrion’s lover and Sansa’s former handmaid, who had explained that to Sansa. She had been shocked at first upon hearing it; she had never known men were capable of doing such things. But it did not surprise her anymore, and there had been something pure about Loras Tyrell’s loyalty that she had liked. She did not see that in Satin, and it was that, perhaps more than anything else, which made her so sure he was Littlefinger’s spy.

So Sansa waited; one part of her sitting by the window in Jon’s solar, one part of her watching for the Red Woman who was said to be at one of her bonfires deep within the bowels of the Nightfort, and one part of her watching for the flying of the ravens.

If she had been sending a message she wanted to go unnoticed, the best way would be send it off with every other expected message. So Satin would release the ravens all at once, or near enough to make no difference. Which meant that Sansa would either have to guess which raven was being sent to Littlefinger, or she would have to get within a position to watch his movements while he attached the letters to the birds. Would this letter be larger? Smaller? Would the boy look nervous while attaching it? Furtive? Guilty? Conflicted? 

Sansa did not know. But she wanted some proof before she confronted the boy directly. She needed to make sure Littlefinger would not be in a position to move against Jon while he was so vulnerable south of the Wall. She needed to do something.

And this was something that she was sure Satin would not be expecting. 

Sansa flew lower and lower, one falcon eye watching Melisandre in the distance – a red speck among the tall fires she and her followers sent up to the sky – and one falcon eye fixed upon Clydas, old Maester Aemon’s former helper, as he walked across the main courtyard, passed the kennels, and the archery butts, up the Queen’s Tower, and into the top room where she could hear the ravens cawing raucously. 

She swooped lower on an updraft, balancing precariously as she almost lost her hold on the falcon in her eagerness to see inside. She watched as Clydas handed Satin the latest missives Jon had left before he had departed. She knew that most of them were continued request for men and supplies, appeals most strongly to the northern lords to strengthen the fortifications, and warnings for what they would all face if the Wall fell.

Jon was taking no chances.

Sansa watched as Clydas left and Satin moved over to the birds, rolling up the parchments one at a time, attaching them in small canisters to the birds legs, and letting them fly. The pretty youth from Old Town moved assuredly and fluidly, glancing at the destinations, instructing the birds, and releasing them in a continuous stream from the windows.

Sansa could feel her heart pounding. If she failed to spot anything unusual, if she missed this, she would have failed, and Jon would be in terrible danger.

And then Satin paused over one of the parchments, just the slightest of moments. His other hand reached out towards another parchment on the table beside him. He slid that before Jon’s message, rolled the two parchments together, attached it to a raven, and sent bird off.

Sansa found another air current and shot upwards. She watched the raven far below her as it headed south. And then she dove.

Down, down, and down. The wind rushing passed her. Free, she was free. Before the raven had time to even notice her, she was upon it. The raven fought but the Sansa-falcon was too large, too strong, and too determined. Sansa grabbed the dead raven in her talons, flapped her wings furiously, and returned to the Nightfort. 

She was within sight of the main gate when a feeling of heat, of burning-hot flames, traveled through, so sharp and sudden that she lost control of the falcon. Sansa was thrown violently back into her own body, crying out as she convulsed, her head slamming into the glass next to her before she fell off the chair and onto the cold, stone floor.

Gasping, bright sparks darkening across her blackening vision, she tried to haul herself back to her feet.

Where was the falcon?

Ghost, who had been silent next to her, was whining and scratching at the door.

Every muscle in her body felt like water, and she was shaking so much her teeth were chattering. Sansa swallowed, felt the anger coursing through her. Stupid, stupid, she cursed herself. You forgot Melisandre.

Crawling, her anger driving her, Sansa reaching the door, opened it, and watched Ghost shoot through.

She took deep breaths, pressing her hot forehead against the cool stone, willing her heart to slow, her mind to calm.

Where was the falcon?

And then she was there again, wings beating feebly on the ground, the raven still clutched in her talons. Red was before her, blood red; the Red Woman’s long dress. And then white fur, the snap of teeth driving the red off, and she felt hot breath around her as Ghost’s fangs closed gently around her small body.

‘Breathe, Sansa,’ Bran’s voice whispered, and Sansa could not tell where it came from, how it was reaching her, but she released her hold on the bird. Her head was pounding so hard that she thought she might throw up.

In a moment Ghost had bounded up the stairs and was beside her again. He dropped the falcon and the raven, and moved over to her, gently nuzzling her face.

“Bran?” Sansa murmured, burying her face in Ghost’s soft fur. But if her little brother had been there, inside Ghost, helping her, he was not there any longer. Only Ghost was there, whining piteously as he tried to get her to rise.

Sansa reached out and ran a gentle hand down the falcon’s feathers. It was still in a daze, but she knew that in a moment it would be fine. She would set it free with the reward of several dead mice she had procured from some of the cats in the kitchens.

She took the small copper canister from between the raven’s dead feet, pulling out the twin parchments there, and read them. Ghost lay down at her back, his tail thumping the floor. The fire crackled, the sun still shone, and Sansa’s lips curved into a grim smile.

It was nice to be right, after all.

She looked up when she heard the tread of feet on the stone stairs. Hobb was there, bringing her the mid-day meal, his craggy features looking uneasy. He stopped in surprise when he saw her, pale and weak, half-sitting, half-lying on the cold floor.

“Lady Stark,” he said, placing the food down, and grabbing her under the arms, before lifting her from the floor and carrying her to the bed. Ghost didn’t even shift. He brought her the food and then stood there, staring down at her.

“That Red Priestess is standing beneath the Lord Commander’s tower watching this window, my lady,” he growled at last. “I don’t know what funny business is going on up here, but I doubt Lord Snow would like it.”

Sansa laughed, a rasp of a sound. “Kindly tell her, Master Hobb, that if she would refrain from attacking the birds around the Nightfort, I would be most obliged to her. And then, if you would, send Satin to me. I have a message I would like him to send. Tonight if possible.”

Hobb shot her a suspicious, unfriendly look, and retreated.

Sansa ate a bit of the broth, and thought rapidly. Poison was a woman’s weapon, Maester Pycelle had said. Queen Cersei had said that a woman’s weapon was between her legs. And Sansa thought they were both right, but her words would be the poison today, and Satin’s barely concealed longing would be the other.

Men chose their path based on what felt good, Sansa knew. All she had to do, was convince Satin that betraying Littlefinger for Jon Snow felt better than the other way around.

“How do you think my brother will react?” she began, as soon as he entered the room. Ghost blocked the door behind him, and Sansa stood tall and sorrowful before him. The boy’s guilt told her exactly how to play this one.

Sansa was carefully reading an early folksong transcribed by a long-forgotten Maester during the time of the 12th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch when Jon returned, a fortnight later. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the first she learned of it was the single horn blow issuing from the sentry at the main gate.

The wind was howling but she still heard the triumphant calls of the returning men, the sharp orders of Edd Tollett ringing over the courtyard, the whinnying of the horses, and the slamming of doors as men were roused from their beds to assist.

She continued reading, although she did let Ghost out to join in the chaos.

When Jon finally entered, shaking snow out of his dark hair, the fierce glow in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He was limping heavily, and Sansa rose quickly to slip her shoulder under his. He pulled her close in a rough hug, burying his cold nose in her warm hair.

“It’s done then,” she said, rather inanely. He was icy and sharp in her arms, full of a vibrating tension. She felt him nod, and then he let her help him over to the bed. She began to untie his fur cloak, the leather jerkins, and the chainmail that he wore. Some of it was still stiff with blood.

“Theon…..Theon acquitted himself well,” Jon said at last. He seemed unable to meet her gaze.

Sansa nodded. She herself could not seem able to explain the sudden, strange lightness she felt. Jon was back, and she had so much to tell him. He was safe, and Theon was safe, and even Edd Tollett was safe. And Ramsay Snow was dead.

He was dead. And she was free. She was with Jon and she was free.

“Roose Bolton is without an heir,” she murmured after a moment, her voice slightly shaking, and the words utterly failing to express how she truly felt.

“Yes,” Jon said quietly, in a low voice. “And I received word that Stannis Baratheon has engaged the Greyjoys at Deepwood Motte.”

“Then now is the time. If we move fast, then now is the time. We must call the banners.”

Sansa watched as Jon’s gaze moved over towards his desk, and took in the fabric spread across it. Sansa had sewn two banners while he was away. One was a grey direwolf on a white banner, for House Stark. But the other she had made with more hesitation. It was the same as her own, but the colors were inverted. A pure white direwolf pranced across a dark grey field; the traditional banner for those born into House Stark but unable to bear any name except Snow.

Sansa knew how this part was supposed to go. She had listened to the bards sing it over and over again. “Will you ride with me, brother?” she asked him, formally. “Will you be by my side as we take back the north?”

His eyes studied her face with a tactician’s calm assessment, and then he gently took her hand. There was something in his face that she could not read. “Sansa Stark, Queen in the North,” he whispered, before raising her hand to gently kiss the back of it. A shiver ran through her and she closed her fingers around his.

“We can do this, Jon,” she reassured him. “We must do this. Before it’s too late.”

His smile was sad. She would not have noticed had she not spent so many weeks watching him; always watching.

“I need a bath,” was all he said, examining the grime and blood that still covered him.

After he had fallen asleep, Sansa rose from her own bed across the room and sat on the edge of his. Jon looked strangely peaceful as he slept, his dark, curls spread out on the pillow and his pale skin almost rosy in the glow from the fire. 

Sansa reached out a hand rested it against the side of his face, watching as he unconsciously leaned into her touch. She thought about the way Jon looked at her sometimes, when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She thought about how she only felt safe when he stood beside her. She thought about how she would meet his gaze and know that he could read her, that he was on her side.

She slid under the covers and pressed against his side, remembering how Queen Cersei’s face lit up when she spoke about Jaime Lannister. She had thought the queen looked truly beautiful in that moment.

Sansa ran her fingers lightly over Jon’s face, tracing over his eyelids, across the bridge of his nose, around his right ear, and over his lips, watching as they parted softly. She felt his breath ghost over the sensitive tip of her finger. 

Jon made a soft noise in his sleep, shifting ever so slightly. Sansa held her breath, hearing the quiet snuffling from Ghost in the corner, the howling of the wind as it rattled the window panes, and the crackling of the fire. There was a mumble of voices from down the corridor, as the guard changed. 

Jon settled back into slumber and Sansa breathed again. She ran her fingers over the stubble on his cheeks, and gently skimmed them over his throat, feeling him swallow beneath them. His shirt was open at the top and Sansa placed her palm over his heart. It was beating rapidly beneath her hand.

Sansa’s gaze flickered back up to Jon’s face, but his eyes were still closed. She swallowed roughly and pressed her face into his hair, closing her eyes. She could not believe she was about to do what she was contemplating. She could not believe she was about to cross a line over which she could never go back. 

But she wanted to, oh, how she wanted to. 

And Sansa knew how fast everything changed, how quickly she could lose those she loved. The Seven Kingdoms had labelled her a traitor to the crown, a murderer, a betrayer, and a fugitive. They had turned on her family and hunted them down. She found that she did not care what they would call her for the fact that she found her brother to be the handsomest of men. He looked like an enchanted prince as he lay there, his fair features delicate in a way that Robb’s or Bran’s or Rickon’s had never been.

Sansa took a long, shallow breath. Ramsay had liked when she did this to him. She might have been innocent in the ways of men when she married him, but Ramsay Snow was not the sort of person to let innocence remain in anyone for long.

There was no pain in this, only pleasure, and Sansa wanted to watch Jon lost in it. She wanted to watch him fall apart before her eyes. He was always so careful, so in control, so aloof.

Sansa’s hand skimmed lightly downward over the soft, white fabric of his shirt; down, down to the heavier, rougher material of his trousers. Her hand settled, feather-light, over his manhood, hot and hard and throbbing.

Her hand tightened gently and Jon groaned, the barest hint of a noise. Sansa felt it against her skin where her lips brushed his cheek.

Her hand gently undid the laces at the top of his trousers and then her soft fingers wrapped around him. She ran her fingers around the base, up the shaft, and then over the head of his cock.

Jon’s eyes were flickering, opening, focusing on her hazily, already lost in lust as he turned to meet her eyes on the pillow. She watched his dark gaze flicker down to where she was biting her lip, unconsciously mirroring her long-absent sister.

She gave another tug with her hand, watching his eyes flutter closed before they opened again and fixed her with an intense gaze. 

His hand came up, threading through her hair, before he pulled her roughly to him, lips covering hers hungrily. Sansa moved her hand again, flicking her thumb over the head of his cock. He thrust helplessly into her fist, breath catching in his throat. 

Sansa bent her head, lips trailing up his throat, relishing in the low noises he made as his head fell back helplessly. She moved her other hand up under his shirt, skating over his ribs, tangling in in his black curls.

She kissed him, hard and fierce. “Let go Jon,” she whispered against his lips, her fingers twisting in a complicated, quick movement. He shuddered against her, warmth squirting over her hands, as his breath came in huge gasps and an expression almost like pain crossed his features.

For several moments the room was silent save for their breathing

Sansa removed her hand and rest her cheek against his, willing her heart rate to slow and her breathing to steady. She wanted to kiss him again but he had gone rigid against her and she wondered what he was thinking.

“Jon,” she said, quietly.

In one fluid movement he moved, pulling away from her almost violently. He was across the room, his breathing ragged and his eyes wide as he stared at her.

She sat up slowly. He looked disheveled and terribly attractive to her right then, his shirt undone and his trouser hanging low and untied.

“Sansa?” he questioned in a low, pain-filled voice, and Sansa felt her heart sink. She held his gaze but raised her chin.

“Yes, Jon,” she said, refusing to acquiesce to his silent plea. “It was not a dream.”

“But you-” He broke off, still breathing hard. Ghost licked his hand and he all but jumped. He was unable to even verbalize what he wanted to say.

Sansa stood up, knowing her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were too bright. Her heart was pounding loudly against her chest. Words were rising up in her, but none of them were the right ones, none of them were enough. 

She took a quick step towards him, one hand reaching out, but he all but flinched from her and she dropped it again. Her eyes dropped to the floor. In the sudden silence the howling of the wind seemed suddenly deafening. “Do you not think I’m….”

She trailed off, furious with herself for the needy words. They were not at all what she had been meaning to say. She had meant to explain, to be logical and persuasive like the heroines in all the tales.

And then Jon was before her, his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I find you beautiful, Sansa. You know that I……that I am weak and I…..” He kissed her forehead, just the barest touch. “But we cannot do this, Sansa. This is……this is wrong. You know it is.”

“Why?” Sansa questioned lowly. “Why is this wrong? What harm are we doing to anyone?”

Jon pulled her into his arms. She wrapped her arms around him. One of her hands was sticky and her heart was still pounding too hard. “I would be doing wrong to you, Sansa. I would be hurting you,” Jon told her fiercely. “I am your brother, your older brother. Robb would never forgive me for this. I would never forgive myself. It’s is my job to protect you not to……take advantage of you.”

Sansa was silent for a moment, and then she gave a low, bitter laugh. “I am not a little girl anymore, Jon.”

“I know. By all the gods don’t I know it. But I still…..I still cannot do this. I did not kill Ramsay to tie you to another Snow.” But his words seemed directed more to himself than towards her. He let her go then, tied his trousers, pulled on his boots, and threw on several more woolen layers. He had not looked at her, but at the door he paused, face still turned away.

“I will have Edd prepare you new rooms tomorrow morning. Ghost will remain with you at all times, Sansa, and that is not a request. As soon as the banners are called we will…..this will……” There was silence for a moment and then Jon apparently gave up. “Sleep well, sister,” he said quietly, the door shutting softly behind him.

Sansa sat back down on the edge of Jon’s bed. Her legs felt shaky. “Everything will be different,” she finished for him.

The sky was still dark when Sansa dressed and left the Lord Commander’s tower with Ghost. Jon had not come back, and dim voices from the mess as well as the movement of men in and out of the door, told her that Jon was in a meeting with his senior officers. She wished she could hear him convince the Night’s Watch to aid in calling the banners to House Stark, but she knew that her presence would only distract him.

Instead she turned into the kitchen gardens, passed through several inner courtyards where Jon’s crews had not had time to begin reparations, and finally exited into the very center courtyard, at the heart of the Nightfort, where the godswood and the heart-trees stood.

Sansa had always loved the godswood at Winterfell, and in King’s Landing it had been one of the few places she could ever find something that resembled peace.  
But here, in the very north, its power was far greater; older, colder, and more dangerous. Once Sansa would have feared it, as she knew her mother, Lady Catelyn, had secretly feared the trees. But now its very danger was a comfort to her, the knowledge that she belonged in such a world, and that those she hated did not.

She was unsurprised to find Lady Melisandre standing dark and still before the largest heart-tree. This one had a fierce face with eyes that were narrowing than the others, bestowing a more calculating look to it than the others had. Sansa got the strange feeling that the tree was assessing Lady Melisandre as closely as the Red Priestess was assessing it.

She felt a strange urge to laugh at the absurdity, but still herself. She moved up to the Red Woman’s side, Ghost a bulwark between them and a friend always with her.

“You play a dangerous game,” Lady Stark, the Red Woman said by way of greeting.

“What I aim to do is dangerous,” Sansa countered, “and the only way to do it is to play a game. But I always remember that it truly is no game; that the North hangs in the balance.”

“You fool with powers that are dark, and against what is light and good and true,” Melisandre said, turning and frowning at Sansa. Her gaze was both disapproving and slightly bemused.

“They are dark because you say they are dark,” Sansa said, lightly, very aware that they were heading into territory she had no wish to go with this woman. “That does not make it so.”

“They are dark because the Lord of Light claims them to be so,” the woman thundered, fire flashing in her eyes.

But Sansa did not rise to match her fire with fire. Slowly she turned to face her. The wind whispered through the red leaves of the heart-trees and Sansa could feel the faces in the weirwood trunks watching her, waiting for her answer.

“This place was old and powerful and beautiful long before you and your god came here, Lady Melisandre,” she said, icy and slow and utterly untouchable. “This place was free, and green with summer, and mine. This place belongs to House Stark, to the people of the North, to the Children of the Forest, not to you or your god, or to House Bolton, or the king on the Iron Throne. You may have power here, but it is not enough. You may have brought my brother back, but you did not do it alone. There would have been nothing to bring back had not the power of the North flowed in his veins. I suggest, if you want to survive here, that you learn to get along with it.”

She was breathing hard by the time she was finished, and she realized that she was furious.

Lady Melisandre was silent, studying her carefully. At last she said, “You are playing in a game out of your league, Sansa Stark. Fire flows through your brother’s veins, the same as ice, and I see him in my flames. His part to play in what is almost upon us will be great. But I do not see you. The Lord of Light has never shone me you, and when I look at you I see only darkness.”

She turned and walked silently away from Sansa and Ghost and weirwoods, her long red skirts billowing behind her, and her red hair black in the hour before the dawn.

Sansa swallowed. She felt suddenly cold and when she looked at the weirwoods again they did not seem so friendly as they had just moments before. Power cuts both ways, she thought.

In the silence there was the slam of a door from the kitchens, two courtyards away. Over the whistling of the wind, Sansa heard Edd Tollett curse.

“Cor, it’s cold as a witch’s tits out here,” he yelled.

Theon’s quieter voice followed. “And what would you know of the Red Woman’s tits, Tollett. You’re too scared to even go near her.”

“She’s right behind me isn’t she?” Edd Tollett said, gloomily. “That’s always the way of it.”

There was a round of laughter from the men, but Sansa knew that they could not see Melisandre, who had paused at the other end of the courtyard, before moving towards the tower she shared with a few of the wildling spearwives. Jon had requested several of them from Iron Emmett. He wanted to hear what they had to say about wildling tactics. She felt a pang when she thought of Jon, of the touch of his lips on hers, and the agony in his eyes as he stared at her in horror.

Sansa took a deep breath and pushed both Melisandre and her brother from her mind. She smiled at Edd’s and Theon’s squabbling, still coming faintly over the wall. Today she would write the missives, and tomorrow the call would go out, sent on hundreds of raven wings. The North would rise. They would follow her.  
This was her home, this was her land, and these her people. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and by all seven gods and the old gods before them, by the time she was done here that’s what all the stories would say of her.

 

&……&……&……&……&……&

 

What did you think? Too much? Not enough? This one was so hard to write. George R. R. Martin’s intimate scenes are always so bare bones and not at all romantic so I tried to balance that with something sweeter. I was going to add a scene between Sansa and Melisandre, but I ran out of time. I might go back and edit it in later if anyone’s interested. Asha’s chapter should be up some time tomorrow, hopefully. And then we’re off to Daenerys.


	10. Asha II

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! This chapter was one I was looking forward to writing for a long time, given my relatively recent obsession with all things related to sailing ships. In the books the Iron Islands sailed vessels that looked more like Viking longships, but given the fact that Stannis Baratheon employed huge galleys with both sails and oars at the Battle of the Blackwater, and given the fact that Yara’s ship looked more like a cross between a late medieval cog or an early carrack on the show, I’m going to go with the slightly more modern design.

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Asha

&……&……&……&

Asha sat on the gunnel and sharpened her dirk. Her newly gleaming axe lay on the quarterdeck beside her. Above her the mainmast and behind her the triangular shaped aft mast presented with full canvas, for the wind was light and from the south, and the captain feared lest they failed to keep to their appointed scheduled.

Asha Greyjoy was not the captain of the Black Wind any longer. In fact, she was not even on the Black Wind, which was a longship with a sleek, fast hull and one main sail. Most of her crew had been disbanded and dispersed to other ships, and Asha had been demoted. The ship she was on now, two masted with several sets of sails, was of a newer, southern design, brought back from the strange, foreign parts where her Uncle Euron had been marauding. And the crew that manned her boasted only some that Asha knew, and many more that she had only occasionally seen at Balon’s court or on the crews of other captains.

Now King Euron, ruler of the Iron Islands from the Seastone Chair which had once been her father’s and should, by rights, have been hers.

But Euron’s words and his gold had been more persuasive than Asha, and she found herself subject to the will of a madman. He had been clever, this strange, fey uncle of hers. He had broken up the crews who had stood behind Asha and his other rivals, and made new crews under captains that were loyal to him, or who could be paid to be loyal to him.

She sat on the leeward side of the vessel watching the captain Euron had assigned to the Kracken’s Teeth. Sigfryd Silvertongue was a younger man, just shy of middle-age. Ambitious and ruthless, he had a way of swaying men with the power of his words. Rumor on the Isles said that it was his own mother who had named him silvertongue. Rumor also had it that he had killed her when she stood between him and his father, whom silvertongue claimed owed him a ship of his own.

Balon had banished Sigfryd for half a decade, and when he had returned only the most desperate of crews would hire him for naught but the most menial labor. 

But Euron’s advancement had changed all that. 

“I want crew aloft,” Sigfryd Silvertongue bellowed. It was a good bellow, capable of being heard over the pounding of the waves and the snapping of the wind-filled sails, but Asha could do a better one. The first thing she had learned was how to make her voice boom over the deck. 

“Bring out the stunsils,” he ordered, referring to smaller, narrowing sails they would attached an the ends of each yard along the mainmast.

“But captain,” a man Asha only knew to be called Gunnar, protested. “We’re already full-sail. The mast cannot hold it. The wind is too strong.”

“We’re losing time,” Sigfryd snapped. “Do as I say.”

Still the man hesitated. Asha had been watching Gunnar. He was an older man, weather-beaten from long years at sea, with several wooden teeth, the scars of a lifetime of raiding, and the keen eyes of a man who was well-aware of his surroundings.

Asha turned her face into the wind and felt it against her skin. She stopped sharpening her dirk, stood, and walked deliberately to the edge of the quarterdeck, staring down at both Gunnar and Sigfryd. The old raider looked up at her.

“She can hold for a bit,” Asha told him, making sure her voice carried over the rest of the deck, and watching as several men turned to look back at her. Their faces were carefully blank and wary, but they observed her nonetheless. “If the wind gets rougher, I suggest we take them down though.”

Gunnar nodded and scrambled up into the rigging before Sigfryd could say anything. Asha met Sigfryd’s unfriendly eyes, nodded at him politely, and returned to her position on the gunnel. She took out her whetstone and resumed sharpening her dirk.

She heard the tread of feet across the wooden planks and felt her uncle, Aeron Damphir, move to stand by her side. The priest looked drawn and haggard, his threadbare robes flapping around a frame that was looser even than usual spare frame was wont to cause. He squinted out over the waves, trying to make out any sight of land, and there was silence for a while. 

Sigfryd Silvertongue came up onto the quarterdeck, adjusted the course of the steersman, and then vanished into the small, captain’s cabin.

“What are you up to, Asha?” Aeron Greyjoy asked her at last.

Asha gave her dirk one last swipe, inspected the newly sharpened edge critically, and then returned both knife and whetstone to their rightful places about her person. She picked up her axe, still lying on the quarterdeck, and swung it up into the air absently, catching it without even looking.

She met her uncle’s eyes straight on. “I’m not up to anything, uncle. Our king has commanded us to strengthen Deepwood Motte and prevent Stannis Baratheon from taking it. The faster we get there, the more time we have to prepare. Any way I can aid our captain in doing so, it is my duty to do.”

Aeron Damphir grunted in a disbelieving sort of way. He had been silent since they had left Pyke, his preaching and his piety dimmed until he was nothing but a shadow of himself. It had been Asha who had found her uncles one night not long after the coronation, when the castle was quiet. It had been she who had seen Aeron’s terrified face and Euron’s dark pleasure. The guards at the door had died before they had time to stop her, and her dirk had been pressed to Euron’s throat as she told him, in no uncertain terms, that if anything happened to her or to either Aeron or Victarion, then he would have a rebellion on his hands, at the head of which would be mother’s family, the Harlaw’s.

Euron had had his revenge though, taking the Black Wind and her loyal crew away from her. But Aeron had gone with her, and if he was silent these past few days, Asha well knew the power of his rhetoric.

She sighed in an aggrieved fashion. “Euron Greyjoy’s creatures are everywhere though, uncle, are they not? Polluting our islands and even the ships we sail on.” She gave Silvertongue a dark look as he stalked from his cabin again, and mingled with some men on the main deck. Laughter followed, for the captain had many friends upon the Kracken’s Teeth.

Aeron Damphir gave his niece a narrow-eyed, assessing look, before stalking off, and Asha exchanged a glance with the steersman, who was actually a steers-woman, from her old crew; Hagen’s beautiful red-haired daughter, Morag.

Morag pulled her hat down lower and spun the wheel several degrees to take better advantage of the wind.

He thought he had won, this uncle of hers. He thought he could swoop in with his gold and his violence and take what was hers. But this was her ship now, and these were her men. She knew what they dreamed, what they hoped, and what they feared, for they were Ironborn, and she had spent a lifetime earning a place amongst them.

She knew them, but they apparently failed to know her. It was time she enlightened them.

Euron Greyjoy had commanded his raiders to burn the coasts, and they had obeyed him. Ironborn ships harried as far as the Reach, sailing far up the rivers and taking from lands that had been untouched by the War of the Five Kings. The terror of the Ironborn and their ships was being spread as far as Oldtown, but beyond raiding, Euron’s new fleet would not go. They burned and pillaged the lands, but did not have either the will or the ability to hold them.

Euron had sent Asha’s other uncle, Victarion, with the greatest part of their fleet and with the dragon horn, to woo the Dragon Queen across the sea. Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, the Silver Queen, men called her who sailed into Pyke from Volantis and Lys, Meereen, Qarth, and even Asshai. 

And Euron Greyjoy thought to claim her for his own and then take her dragons. Privately Asha had grave doubts that a woman who could wake dragons and had conquered three city-states and was attempting to subdue Slaver’s Bay would tamely sit by while Euron took her dragons from her. But having Uncle Victarion out of the way lessened Euron’s powerbase, and made Asha’s life slightly easier.

Asha moved to the opposite side of the deck. On the port side of the Kracken’s Teeth, a league or so apart from each other, rode two other ships, both longships of the kind she was most familiar with, the Harlaw Queen, commissioned by her father many years ago in honor of her mother, and the Seagull, which, despite a name which wouldn’t strike fear in the heart of a babe at its mothers breasts, was renowned upon the port towns for both its ferocity in battler and its speed.  
Cromm, Hagen the horn, Eerl Harlaw, and Rolfe the Dwarf, all from her old crew, were on the Harlaw Queen. Her lover, Qarl the Maid, Rook, Droopeye Dale, and Grimtongue, were on the Seagull. And Rogon Rustbeard, Lorren Longaxe, Fingers, and Six-toed Harl were on the Kracken’s Teeth with her.

Asha exchanged a look with Qarl. He was barely visible at the gunnel at this distance, but she turned her head to the left, their signal for ‘not yet,’ and continued looking out at the sea. Asha had been assigned to look after their rations whilst at sea, the most menial of positions, but she did not mind. A seaman who provided a good meal to his brothers was remembered fondly by them.

The wind was picking up, as she had known it would, and this close to the shore, almost within sight of it, and there should be shoals of fish.

Awhile later she spied what she was looking for. “A lipper!” she shouted. “Starboard side, thirty degrees! It looks like a shoal of joalies!”

The crew had not had fresh fish for many days and a hue and cry rang out at the news. “Morag, ten degrees starboard. Bring out the nets!” she ordered, hurtling off the quarterdeck and landing with a boom on the main. Men ran to obey.

Sigfryd Silvertongue hauled himself up onto the gunnel, one hand in the rigging. “Ay, by the Drowned God she’s a lovely shoal alright. Hurry lads.”

The Kracken’s Teeth might have been taller than the longboats Asha had sailed on all her life, but she was still low enough in the water that all the men had to do was drop the nets over the side at exactly the right moment, and soon they fairly bulged with a cran of young herring.

It took the combined strength of near the entire crew to haul the net back onboard, with Asha and Sigfryd shouting encouragement all the while. Asha could see the other two ships angling for a bit of the shoal as well. They would all have fresh fish today.

As they lay there on the deck, panting and congratulating each other, Silvertongue gave Asha a sly look. “You’re up, Greyjoy. Prepare the fish for these hard-working men.” His tone was sharp and dismissive, how you would address a woman and not a raider.

Asha could feel Fingers, by her side, bristling. She felt the clench in her own stomach, the urge to lash out, but she forced herself back on her haunches instead. She speared a joalie clean through with her dirk and gave the men around her a cat’s smile. 

“Looks like meat tonight boys,” she called, and the laughter and cheers that greeted this announcement made Asha’s cat smile only grow. “You four,” she said, pointing at Fingers, and three strangers whom she knew were called, Arvid, Endre, and Gulbrand, “drag these beauties further down the deck. You’re in charge of slicing, and as I have no skill in cooking fish, does anyone want to volunteer?” 

There was a silence across the crew. Silvertongue opened his mouth, his face like thunder, but Asha interrupted quickly. “No one wants to be eating burned fish tonight, do they?”

There was a quick shaking of heads. It would be sacrilege to ruin such a gift from the Drowned God. Asha was perfectly able to cook a fish in an edible fashion, but she saw no need to let herself be relegated to a task which would diminish her in the eyes of the men. Besides, being below decks for several hours would give her time to get to know the men who helped her. And they would get to know her.

Old Gunnar pushed himself forward. “If we have a bit of seaweed and some sea salt, I make a mean fried fish,” he announced.

“You’re hired,” Asha told him, and aided the men in hauling off the ropes while the herring thrashed and gasped. They settled first just below the quarterdeck, so they could gut the fish, throwing the unusable parts back into the sea.

Asha kept a close eye on the sails, Morag kept her mouth shut, and, just as she predicted, the catch of fish distracted Silvertongue from noticing that the wind had picked up substantially. The extra sails along the mainmast caused the ship to start to pitch violently as the sea grew rougher. The mainmast creaked ominously in the rising gale, and several of the men on deck gave it uneasy looks.

Asha shook her head in annoyance. “He is no true seaman,” she said, in a low but carrying voice. The five men beside her heard, but so did a half dozen others, Pyke men who had sailed all their lives on the seas, fishing and marauding. They saw the gathering of clouds the same as she. Ironmen bowed to no one, but all were wary of Euron Greyjoy and his new captains.

“Sigfryd,” one of the Pyke men growled, but Silvertongue had his hand confidingly on another man’s shoulder further down the deck, and failed to hear him.

Asha stood up, holding tight to the gunnel. The ship careened suddenly into a gulley between the waves, the top heavy mast tilting her dangerously on the starboard side. Asha was almost thrown off her feet, and a man further along, a one-legged raider named Malek, stumbled and went right over the side.

“Man overboard!” came the cry.

“Captain!” Asha snapped. And then, “Sigfryd Silvertongue,” she bellowed, and watched as the man looked up in sudden alarm at the mast. She visibly lost patience. “Gunnar, with me,” she commanded and then, not waiting to see if he followed, threw herself onto the ropes and climbed the rigging of the main mast with all speed.

A half dozen men followed her up and together they wrestled the stunsils back off the yard as the ship pitched and Morag cursed and Silvertongue shouted orders at the men bellow. One-legged Malek made a valiant effort to catch the ship, but a wave took him under before anyone could be sent out after him, and Asha watched him sink into the briny depths with a cold in her bones that had nothing to do with the approaching storm.

Gunnar stood beside her afterwards on the quarterdeck. “You told him to take them down if the wind picked up,” he muttered angrily.

Asha did not have to do anything more than nod. She knew this report would spread amongst the men like wildfire. Already some of the men not on Euron’s side were eyeing the captain with increasing dislike. Malek had been well-liked, with a salty humor appreciated by men stuck together in a confined space for weeks and month at a time. 

“Let’s get back to the fish,” she sighed, and headed back belowdeck. Gulbrand had started a fire in the small iron grate and Fingers and brought out what seasoning they had. Endre was dubiously eye some dried onions, and Asha mingled amongst them, asking about wives and saltwives, children and parents, their health and their villages. 

“Men,” she said, around the long wooden table that night, after they’d feasted royally on fish and stew and hard, black bread. “Let’s have a song.”

It was six-toed Harl who obliged. He had had a voice like honey when he was a young lad, but salt and wind had turned him coarse and rough. But he could carry a tune and on the Black Wind Asha had always tasked him with helping the men keep time as they rowed.

He knew more songs about feared raiders and far off shores than anyone Asha had ever met, and as he hopped nimbly up onto the table despite his lack of toes, he was already singing. Some of the men looked amused and mildly contemptuous, but those of Asha’s crew and even some others instantly started keeping time.

Asha kept her place for several rounds, and then excused herself to go use the head. When finished, she ascended to the quarterdeck and stood beside Morag. The storm had been only a minor squall and the night was clear, without a moon. The stars shone down upon them and Asha saw Logan Longaxe taking their position from their light.

“How soon?” she shouted down to him.

“Not tomorrow. But the next day.”

Asha exchanged a look with Morag. “Sooner rather than later would be best,” the red-haired beauty said. “The grog’s flowing and it should be awhile before he returns.” She paused and then added in a voice heavy with annoyance, “Given his performance these previous nights.”

“He’s good at getting men to follow him,” Asha said lightly, sweeping a gaze across the deck. Only a half dozen men were up top and no one was paying her any mind. She took a step back, and then another. Then she spun and pushed her shoulder roughly against the captain’s cabin, shoving open the door and disappearing inside.

The only windows were in the very back of the small, cramped cabin, so she struck a spark and lit one of the lanterns. Moving carefully about, making sure she didn’t move anything, she pushed aside haphazardly piled maps and charts, spar bits of parchment with illegible scribbles on them, and finally found what she was looking for.

Pulling it out, she noticed that the seal was still unbroken. She was not entirely sure how literate Sigfryd Silvertongue was, but she did know that he was unable to write more than the few basic symbols sailors used to mark their maps.

The iron islands were not big on book learning. Asha’s Harlaw uncle was considered strange and weak for collecting books and employing a Maester. Balon had made sure that Asha could fully read and write, but she never advertised that skill, especially when she was onboard a ship. Sailors and ironborn were both extremely superstitious. Put them together and they were liable to take everything as an omen of doom.

Asha broke the seal, read the contents, and smiled grimly. What happened next most likely would not run how she hoped, but this note right here was excellent leverage.

Asha listened to the men as they talked about the captain in low voices all the next morning. She tacked them early through the wind and gave Morag a rest, and she watched with no little amusement as the men glanced from her to Silvertongue.

There was no mistaking that the captain was a competent sailor, but he was not an excellent one. He could get men to follow him, but he had no idea where to lead them. And as this was his first command, he lack Asha’s intrinsic feel for the men, their moods, and the fickle whimsy of the sea.

“What exactly are we even going to do once we get to Deepwood Motte?” she heard Rorik asked at around midday. He was in the midst of a small huddle of men.

“We’re not soldiers, how are we supposed to defend this place?”

“The captain has a plan.”

Asha heard someone else mutter that the captain did seem capable of planning his way out of the harbor on a clear day with a favorable breeze.

“The captain is one of these new, weak ironborn who think that they deserve plunder without paying the iron price for it, as our fathers and their fathers before them did. Their blood is polluting our people, and we follow them for what reason, exactly?” That was her uncle Aeron, who had spent the entirety of last night watching her from a corner of the deck and saying not a word.

“I tell you that we have lost the favor of God with our weakness and our betrayal of the life we have led for generations. The Iron Islands will never be respected, will never be feared, while men like Sigfryd Silvertongue and his master, Euron Greyjoy, lead us.”

Athstan and Harran, cousins from near Harlaw, and loyal to the captain, vanished below deck. Asha’s suspicion that they had gone to report the latest talk to Silvertongue were validated when he soon came up top and began to reassure the men, his words and rhetoric as persuasive as always.

“We are Ironborn,” he told them. “Our entire lives we have not known the glory of our ancestors. Instead we have toiled on a barren rock, breaking our backs in toil when we could be kings as we were of old. They took the greenlands away from us, the dragonlords and their dogs, the Starks and the Tullys, and I say we take them back. Once we ruled all the Riverlands and a fourth of the North as well. Ironborn raiders were feared and immortalized throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And we will be again.”

Morag took back over at the wheel after the noon time meal, and although there was more muttering amongst the men than usual, nothing else unusual presented itself. Asha had hoped a crew uprising would effectively take care of her problems, but her plans very rarely worked. But as Silvertongue’s roar of rage ad demands for all crew to present themselves on deck echoed around the Kracken’s Teeth, Asha reflected on why she had ever even bothered with a plan. When it came down to it, planning was for those too weak to fight their own battles face to face.

She leaned in the shade of the main mast, saw the crews of the other two ships craning their necks to see what all the commotion was about, and fingered the newly sharpened edge of her ax.

“Someone on this crew has betrayed their brothers,” the captain said in a low, dangerous voice. He paced back and forth on the main deck, the sun gleaming off the iron in his braids. “Someone has stolen from me and from their king in a cowardly, deceitful act. This…scum…is not fit to call himself Ironborn.”

He was good, Asha had to give him that. His words were engendered to pace her automatically on the defensive.

Asha took a sudden, careless step forward, her movement so rapid that Silvertonge started and fell silent.

“Why don’t you tell everyone here what, exactly was stolen, Sigfryd?” she demanded bluntly. “Or shall I do it for you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled out Euron’s message and waved it about. “Brothers, we have been relegated to nothing more than messengers, like the weak fools from the green lands. We have been designated,” she spat viciously, “by our new king to be gifts, an enticement for an alliance with a low-land southerner. Euron Greyjoy has decided that we are not worth even dying in battle against our enemy, but instead thinks us craven enough to beg for our lives, and to beg for what is rightfully ours!”

She hammered out a fist in Silvertongue’s direction. ‘And that craven son of a dog, that ill-excuse of an ironborn, has thrown aside the Old Way of our ancestors, and thinks we will follow him in doing that!”

The startled, slightly mutinous faces of the men caused Silvertongue’s face to take on an aspect of sudden alarm.

“What does the letter say?” Logan Longaxe cried.

Asha handed it to him and then planted herself square before Silvertongue. “You’re a liar and a betrayer. Do you accept my challenge, or are you not even ironborn enough to do that?”

She stayed light on the balls of her feet and when he swung at her she moved rapidly out of the way. Her axe and her dirk in each hand, her husband and her suckling babe. She felt her blood rise in her, her heart pounding, and everything narrowed down to just her and her opponent. “We have a fight,” she roared, grinning, and the cheers of her men answered her. 

Sigfryd Silvertongue sneered, his own weapons drawn out in one, swift motion; a one-handed axe in the left with a wicked spike on the end, and an axe-head on a curved handle that would be very hard to anticipate blows from.

Logan Longaxe frowned as he read the letter. He was one of the few who could make out Euron’s mad scribbling which he called writing. “It says here we are to join with Stannis Baratheon,” he said. He sounded more bemused than anything else.

“Stannis Baratheon joined the Night’s Watch,” Fingers objected.

“Nay, working for the Starks, he is,” Old Gunnar said knowledgably, stroking his gnarly beard.

Silvertongue darted in close to Asha, testing her defenses. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to her when he expected her to dart away again. She kneed him viciously in the gut, slammed a vicious backhand into his face, and then kicked the back of his right knee, allowing him to stumble away from her.

He knew she was just toying with him, and over the roars and cat calls of the men, the babble of voices over the letter, he narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. Then he hurled his axe. As she ducked, he came on her. The only reason she wasn’t gutted was that she physically grabbed the blade of his curved axe as it made a slice for her stomach. She’d had to drop her weapons to do so. 

He pulled her close with his other hand, and she slammed her forehead into the soft flesh of his face.

Cursing, he stumbled away from her. Asha’s hands were bleeding profusely, but so was Sigfryd’s nose. She grinned.

“Confident, are you, bitch?” he snarled, trying to stem the blood, and she was on him again, scooping up her axe and her dirk on the way. Her axe spun towards him. He ducked. Her dirk went low. He swept in with his curved blade, catching her on the arm. She grabbed his spike from the deck, drove it deep into his knee cap.

He screamed in agony and threw himself upon her.

The men were thoroughly distracted from the Captain’s letter as they screamed, some for Asha, some for Sigfryd. Asha thought she heard Qarl’s voice from the Seagull urging her on. 

Rolling and hitting, Asha and Silvertongue fell to the deck. The contested captain tried to use his greater weight to pin her limbs and torso, as she attempted to choke the life out of him, pulling him to her like a lover and crushing his throat in the crook of her arm. He slammed his fist viciously into her ribs, breaking at least one. Asha hit him again and again on either side of his back, in the soft spot just before the ribs began. Her other hand scrambled on the deck and found his spike.

His fist connected with her face.

She drove the spike right into the side of his head as hard as she possible could from her prone position on the deck. It went through is eye and bit deep into his brain.

Asha watched the light leave his eyes, felt the warm spray of blood on her face, and felt the dead weight of him crash down on top of her. She shoved him off her and stumbled to her feet. All around her the men had gone silent.

She was gasping for breath and knew that she must look vicious, violent, and utterly out of control. “Brothers!” she panted, feeling the blood, her own and Silvertongue’s, dripping down into her mouth. Her hair was soaked with it, and her hands burned like fire. “Brothers,” she screamed, “I say fuck an alliance with a southern lord who was defeated not by an enemy, but by the land we call home. I say we take what we want, and anyone who tries to stop us will pay the iron price!”

The cheers of the ironborn sounded loudly over the waves as Deepwood Motte and the shores of the North came slowly and inexorably into view.

&……&……&……&……&……&

Daenerys will be next!


	11. Daenerys

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

Daenerys

&……&……&……&

 

Daenerys Targaryen, last of her House, Mother of Dragons, stood in the grasses of the Great Dothraki Sea as riders circled around her with watchful, unfriendly faces. She carefully stepped away from the ring she had dropped to the ground and waited for one of the Dothraki outriders to approach.

At last a big man, with vicious scars across both cheeks, pulled up close enough to haul her up behind him, but he would not let her sit astride. He draped her across the horse’s withers, awkwardly on her stomach, and held her in place with an iron grip. Then all the riders wheeled in unison and set off at a rapid cantor back towards the east; she bouncing along like an unwanted parcel amongst them.

She knew that she was being intentionally humiliated, that the Khal who sent them had given orders to treat her not as a Khaleesi, but as a slave or a dog.

Daenerys did not bother to argue, even after she had thrown up for the third time. Distantly she wondered who would find her first, Drogon or Ser Jorah Mormont. She had left her ring in the grasses at the place where she had been taken as a sign to him. She knew he would come after her, alone or with Daario Naharis or Grey Worm, but he would come.

He had saved her in the fighting pits. They had all been so focused on the combatants, but Jorah Mormont had been focused on her, and the threat that was around her.

He had asked for her hand and she had given it. He would not leave her, her bear. She had wanted to forgive him, to let him stay with her, when she heard what he had done, but at times she feared his pride was as great as her own, and he had refused to admit wrongdoing. Oh, not of the actual spying, but of the fact that he had not trusted her with the truth; the fact that he had felt the need to hide it long after his transgression had passed. 

He had failed to trust her with the truth. She would have listened to him, she would have understood, but he had refused to even allow her that choice; had decided how she would act before he had even made the attempt, and taken the truth from her; hidden it.

Everyone lied to Dany, hiding their thoughts behind their words because they wanted something from her.

She had hoped that Jorah Mormont had grown beyond the former crimes which had driven him from the Seven Kingdoms, and that he had simply just wanted to serve her honorably; as a knight was supposed to. But she had been wrong. There had been something still false in him, something that she had never seen in Ser Barristan Selmy, who had begged pardon for his past falseness, and whom she had forgiven readily.

The sun beat down on her, causing men and beasts to sweat and stink. Dany held on tightly to the edge of the soft saddles the Dothraki used. She tried to keep her head bent low, because every time she raised it to relieve the pressure on her neck, the Khal’s rider struck her.

As the day passed, Dany wondered if she had been too hasty in her judgment of Ser Jorah. Perhaps redemption and a return to the honorable path was an uneven and bumpy as this road, and as full setbacks as the course of her own life. She feared being a queen who was too lenient, but perhaps she was being too inflexible?

She wondered what her brother, Rhaegar, would have said.

Jorah and Barristan Selmy had told her that men followed Rhaegar because they loved him. What was it about him that had inspired them? He had been a lover of books and music, melancholic and aloof. What had caused men to describe him as a great warrior? Was it all just mindless sycophancy? He had lost to Robert Baratheon after all.

Dany was delirious by the time night fell and they reached their destination. She had now been two days without food, she had started her womanly bleeding during the day, and she had had very little water.

She was shoved roughly into a flimsy, wooden cage with a locked door, stumbled to the still-warm dirt and rested her cheek against the blessedly non-moving earth. If she cried from the pain in her screaming muscles and her aching, cramping stomach, there was no there to see.

Distantly she wondered if this was the end. Even more distantly she felt a vague spark of annoyance at Drogon, the big lout, who had let her be taken without even a single flame in her defence.

It was better this way, she knew. Drogon was already injured, and there were too many Dothraki for him to fight.

Eventually Daenerys lost consciousness. 

She dreamed.

Daenerys knew she was dreaming because it was snowing all around her, and she had never seen snow outside of her dreams. But here the snow fell, the wind howled in loud, lonely, tormented bursts, and people were screaming; screaming terrible cries of pain and fear.

Before her stood a wall of ice – hard and old and full of magic. Daenerys could feel its power humming, calling to her to touch it. She ran her hands along it, marveling at how very ancient it felt, and how cold it was beneath her fingertips. But underneath its apparent impermeability she felt the cracks, the wear, the weakness. It had been mended in places, she could see, but the patches were weak compared to the original structure, and had none of the power that had first been placed there. And screaming was coming from inside it.

The great ice wall shimmered and flickered before Dany’s eyes, suddenly as insubstantial as mist, and then it burst apart; hundreds of thousands of shards of ice glinting in the sudden, cold, pale sunlight. Before her stood great, rolling plains covered in ice and snow and the bodies of the dead. Red blood stained the pure white snow, amidst were strewn broken swords and bows and axes, dead horses, dead children, ruined barracades, and the torn banners which fluttered all alone in the tepid breeze.

There was no one left alive. As far as Dany could see, as far as the rolling hills went, there was only the dead.

She stumbled amongst them – men, women, and children – all armed, all dead, all with faces white from fear and grief. There were so many of them. She saw people dressed in thick, worn firs that she knew must be Wildings from beyond the Wall, and knights in armor with dead armored steeds from the south. She saw men dressed in the ragged black leathers that Ser Jorah told her men of the Night’s Watch wore, and she saw the leather and fir, the chainmail and the great swords of the northmen.

And everywhere she saw the banner of House Stark – a grey direwolf on a white field, and even a white direwolf on a grey field. But House Stark was no more; all the reports said they had been hunted down. Even Tyrion Lannister said so; claiming his vanished wife was the last of them.

'Our two terrible fathers saw to that, he had said,' sounding strangely regretful of this fact.

Maybe she dreamed of times passed? A woman with a torn throat was screaming, and a man with a wolf’s head was paraded before a crowd made demonic by the glow of torches and the blood on their hands and faces.

And then she was standing in a tower, tall and narrow, with smoke rising past the windows from great fires below. A woman lay on the rather small bed before her. The woman was young, with dark hair and wild, fierce eyes. Blood surrounded her, and the woman’s hand where she grasped the blood-stained jerkin of the grim-faced man next to her, was shaking with strain. Another man stood beside the first. He was small and wiry, with grief-stricken eyes and a small bundle in his arms. Dany could not see if the bundle was alive or dead.

“Promise me, Ned,” the dark-haired woman said fiercely, her pale, blood-shot eyes glaring into the first man’s. “Promise me.”

And Dany knew that the man must be Ned Stark, Lord Eddard Stark, Robert the Usurper’s dog. She watched as the young Lord Stark placed a hand over the woman’s. “I promise sister,” he whispered, as fierce as she.

The woman smiled then, and for the first time Dany saw that she was beautiful.

“Lyanna,” the small man cried, “what shall we –”

But Lyanna Stark was gone.

Dany watched as Ned Stark bowed his head in grief, watched the very stillness of him, and knew in her bones that he believed himself to have failed – to have been measured to fill his father’s and his brother’s shoes – and to be found wanting. She felt like that so often herself. 

Dany turned and found her brother standing beside her – not Viserys, but Rhaegar. He was taller than Viserys, with long, silver-blond hair and eyes a shade lighter than her own. He was fair, this brother she had never met in life, the most handsome man she had ever seen, but sadness hung over him like a shroud. Neither of the other two men in the room reacted to his presence.

Rhaegar turned and smiled at her, sad but fond at the same time. “Little sister,” he told her gently, “there must be three, but dragons only burn. See.” His face was still as stone as he glanced at the woman on the bed. “Even those they love.”

And then Rhaegar was gone from her side and Dany stood before the Iron Throne in Maegor’s great keep. She walked up and saw Viserys lounging on the swords that made up the tall chair, legs swinging over the side, as insolent and arrogant as ever. She was glad to see him.

“You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” he demanded of some invisible someone.

And then Viserys was old, his hair longer, his eyes even more crazed, and the hall was full; full and deathly silent.

A young, dark-haired man stood defiantly before the throne. On one side of him stood a younger Barristan Selmy, stoic and stern, and on the other was a beautiful, golden-haired youth, that Dany suspected must be the kinslayer, Jaime Lannister. He looked sick to his stomach, and his brilliant green eyes shot a warning at the older man who stood behind the boy. By their long faces and stern visages, Dany knew they must be more Starks.

“Your Grace,” the older man said, stepping forward, “I am the Lord Paramount of the North, a loyal servant of the crown. You have no just cause to keep my daughter from me.”

Her father, the king’s face suffused with rage. “I am the king,” he spat, “and you will do what I say. You will all do what I say. Your daughter should be honored to have been chosen by the dragon!”

The younger Stark pushed forward again. Ser Barristan held him back. “Where is your son?” demanded the fiery, young lord. “Where is the kidnapper? The rapist? Send him out so that he may die like the dog he is!”

Lord Stark reached his headstrong, furious son too late; the words sounded over the silent Great Hall. Jaime Lannister closed his eyes, and her father started screaming.  
Dany watched as the fires were brought. She watched as her father laughed when Lord Rickard was burned alive in his armor, and the Stark bannermen were murdered by the Kingsguard and the Targaryen guardsmen of King’s Landing.

She watched as young Lord Brandon Stark strangled himself in his own chains, just as her father wanted, trying to save his own father in time.

She watched the courtiers and the servants, Lord Varys standing in the shadows, and she watched Jaime Lannister throw up when the smell of roasted meat pervaded through the Hall.

When she woke up, tears were running down her cheeks, unable to be stemmed, and she lay there still and silent, for a very long time.

“I see no tint of madness in you,” she heard Ser Barristan say again.

“There are times when I still can’t believe you’re real,” Jorah Mormont passionately declared. 

Dany sat with her back against the wooden bars and watched as the day slowly passed. Carefully she catalogued her assets and allies, where they were and if any of them had the least chance of reaching her in time. The answer was a dismal, no. She attempted to reach out and call to Drogon like she must have done unconsciously in the fighting pits of Mereen, but whatever she had done then, she could not replicate now. 

Rhaegar’s voice and Visery’s, Ser Jorah’s and Lyanna Stark’s sounded in her ears, and she thought about three dragons and her two brothers, and Aegon and his sisters, and her three cities, and her three betrayals.

The next day they marched with the sun. Days upon days they marched, Dothraki on horseback, and Dany walking. As they went, more and more slaves – men, women and children from all over Essos, from Westeros, the Summer Isles, even far off Asshai – joined them.

Over the great tall grasses of the Dothraki sea they went, on and on until the waving, silvery-green grasses vanished and tall wind-carved rocks and sand took their place. Although they were given little food, and marched at an almost brutal pace, Daenerys did not mind. The other slaves rarely spoke, and the silence was a welcome relief. Dany thought of Drogon, and Rhaegal and Viserion locked in their cell. She thought of Missandei and Ser Jorah and good Ser Barristan who had died in her service. She thought of her beautiful brother, Rhaegar, and his fierce northern girl. She thought of the Wall of ice and the faint whispering of the Stark banners in the wind as they waved forlornly over the fields of the dead. She saw the pale face of a young man, with dark, curly hair as he lay, cold and pale in death, in an ancient, northern tower.

For the first time Dany was consumed with a desire to be there, to stand on the land her ancestors had claimed as their own; to feel the north wind, cold and sharp against her face; to hear the drums of the northmen, and the horns of the rivermen; to see the gay pageantry of the Knights of the Highgarden, and the water gardens of the palaces of Dorne.

For the first time Dany felt as if she belonged there, and not here on this strange, foreign continent. As the giant, rearing horse above Vaes Dothrak loomed into view, Dany looked up at it. ‘I have come full circle,’ she thought. ‘The sea gives and it takes away, even this strange sea of grass. From nothing I came, and to nothing I have returned.’ But she realized that wasn’t quite true. She had been a girl, scared and untried, that first time she had been here. But she was Daenerys Targaryen now, and she had learned much since then.

It was not the dragons that made her Daenerys Targaryen. There were dragons because she was Daenerys Targaryan, last scion of the last House of dragonlords from Valyria. And they would all learn this.

Vaes Dothrak was just as she remembered it. Located beneath the Mother of Mountains and next to the lake that the Dothraki called the Womb of the World. It had no walls, but had something from each of the mighty empires and cities the Dothraki had conquered. It sprawled indolently, arrogantly, baking in the sun, and it was disconcertingly empty; a city where no one lived by the ancient crones, the wives of dead Khals.

The place was so huge that Dany was sure every Khalasar would easily fit inside. She wondered how many of the Khals were here. Were they all present to watch her punishment? Missandei had told her that tales of her, the female Khal, the conqueror of cities in her own name, had spread among the Dothraki and their slaves like wildfire.

She knew that she had caused affront to their way of thinking when she had claimed Khal Drogo’s remaining people as her own. Were her dragons and her ever growing empire a big enough threat to cause all the Khalasars to turn out here? And if so, how could she use them?

The Khals and the crones of Vaes Dothrak had gathered in the center of the city on a raised, stone rock which served as a dais. The slaves were herded around and Daenerys was thrown forward by two riders into the dirt before the horse-lords. In the far corner of the cleared space, Dany could see a huge pile of unburnt wood being assembled in preparation of an enormous bonfire. A pole with metal shackles was at its very center and Dany smiled grimly. ‘Circles within circles,’ she thought again. ‘From fire I was born and from fire I will be reborn.’

“Wife of Khal Drogo,” boomed the voice of Khal Jhaqo in Dothraki. “Do you know why you are here?”

Daenerys kept her eyes on him and was silent.

“When the great Khal fell and rode into the Nightlands, you failed to follow him. Without honor, you claimed the title that was rightfully his and refused to fulfill your duty and return to Vaes Dothrak. The punishment for this is death, by burning. You will never enter into the Nightlands. No horses will be sacrificed in your honor, and your shade will be left to wander the fringes of this world forever.

Daenerys looked at the assembled Khals and Khaleesis, so set in righteous indignation, and she laughed.

One of the Khal’s riders struck her, sending her sprawling, but she laughed again. She raised her head and struggled back to her feet, made difficult by her still-bound hands. She made no move forwards or she would have been struck again. She tasted blood in her mouth.

‘Fire and blood,’ she thought.

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she said, her voice loud and scornful, her Dothraki flawless under Missandei’s tutelage. She turned slowly, making sure she was addressing slave and dothraki alike. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. I honored my husband, and my son, Rhaego. When the witch took them, I walked into the flames with them. And when the fire was gone, I remained. I walked into the flames and they did no harm, for they did not want me yet.”

Her voice boomed over the silent mob of slave and free; the eyes of the slaves were dead and hopeess, while the eyes of the Dothraki were wary and unfriendly.

“That is impossible,” one of the crones snapped from the dais.

Khal Jhaqo was frowning at her as though trying to figure out why she would be lying.  
“I walked out of that fire that took my husband and my son, and the witch, and I returned with three dragons. I am the dragon’s daughter; I am the mother of dragons,” Daenerys returned. “I was sent back from the Nightlands to lead you – to lead all of you – across the waters to the Great Enemy, the slayer of horses, and the bringer of Night. You will follow me, and together we will defeat him.”

Khal Jhaqo gave a rasping laugh. “And why would we do this? Our lands are here. We are kings here. The weak, spineless men of the cities hide in terror from us. What need do we have for your Night King across the sea?”

Daenerys tilted her head up and assessed Khal Jhaqo carefully. He was a man who liked to hear the sound of his own voice, one who wanted to be seen as the leader. In reality, she suspected he was desperately afraid of losing the power he had claimed on her husband’s death.  
Dothraki followed only the strongest.

“Are you really kings of this place?” she asked, mildly. She wave around at the desolate city, silent save for the wind, filled with a hundred times more slaves than Dothraki. “Are your lands not shrinking, emptying of game and multiplying with more and more people who do not ride, who do not follow your way of life?”  
Khal Jhaqo narrowed his eyes in scorn. “We will kill them, and they will fear us once more.”

Dany shook her head. “Across the sea there are lands to roam as far as you can ride. Every one of you, slave and Dothraki alike, are become poor and powerless. Every year the Dothraki Sea grows smaller. Weak men from the cities, men who do not ride, come from the east and the west and the south, driving you farther and farther north. And soon my dragons will come, and they will burn this place to the ground!”

Dany could see that she had their attention now.

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” she asked, softer, making many strain forward to hear her. Whispers broke out among the slaves as they spread her words to those behind them. “They are bigger than the greatest of horses, swallow men and beasts whole, and burn whole cities. They are fire and air and darkness, and I am their mother. I am no ordinary woman. I stood in this place and I ate the stallions’ heart and the crones said that my son was to be the leader of all the Dothraki, who would unite all the tribes and lead use to glory. But they were wrong, it was not my son who would burn the world; it was my dragons they saw.”

“What are you talking about, girl?” Another of the crones demanded, but there was something in her dark eyes that was watchful rather than dismissive.

“I am not a girl,” Daenerys said. “Dragons are neither male nor female, and neither am I. I am the Stallion that Mounts the World, and you can all join me and the world will yours, or you can all be burned in my wake!”

There was nothing then as the wind echoed through the stone valleys and the slaves whispered among themselves. Daenerys caught her breath and watched them think over what she said. She was not surprised when Khal Jhaqo gave the order for the fires to be lit, or when she was tied to the center of the bonfire.

She wanted to laugh again, for the fire would not harm her and at the very edge of her consciousness, she could feel a presence just as she had in the Mereenese fighting pits.

Drogon was coming for her. 

As the flames rose higher and higher around her, Dany watched the restless movement of the slaves.

“The Mother of Dragons,” they cried above the crackling of the bonfire.

“The breaker of chains!” others shouted. They pushed against the Dothraki with their whips, and were struck back for their trouble. As blood was spilled and the flames engulfed her, the slaves of Vaes Dothrak were driven into a frenzy. Howling and shrieking like a mad thing, a thing possessed, the crowd surged forward. Dany could hear the shouts of the Khals’ riders, the roaring commands of Khal Jhaqo, and the high-pitched wails of the crones.

And then, above it all, Dany heard the furious call of a dragon. It rent the air, echoed against the rocks and over the noise of the frantic slaves. Drogon was here.  
The sound of dragon wings was like a furious wind storm. Drogon screamed again, and then he was above her, landing heavily on the ground, bigger than he had been even a few weeks ago. He landed around her, encircling her with black, shiny scales, and crushing the roaring flames of her funeral pyre like they were a mere minor inconvenience. 

Around his girth, Dany could see the awe and fear on slave and Dothraki alike, as all of them paused for a single second to take in the fearsome creature.

Khal Jhaqo and the other Khals were surrounded by their Kos’ on the dais. 

Dany’s clothes were burning off her body but her skin was untouched.

On the ridge above them, Dany saw two armored men on horseback looking down upon the scene, and she smiled. Even from this distance she could recognize the worn and dented, but strong, armor of Ser Jorah Mormont. He had come for her.

The Dothraki on the dais made a move towards her and Drogon, with whips and scimitars and arakhs sharp and deadly.

“Drogon,” Dany said in a low voice, knowing he felt the call of her and watching as his head tilted towards her. She tried to push her command at him through her voice, through their bond. ‘These men,’ she thought at him, ‘not the slaves.’

“Dracarys,” she said.

The dais, the Khals, their kos’, and many of the crones were engulfed in dragonfire. Before any of the other Dothraki had time to even make a move towards Daenerys or her dragon, Drogon had swiveled back around to face them, fixing fierce, fiery eyes upon them all. For a moment all was silence save the screaming of burning men and beasts.  
Drogon screamed once more, a warning to anyone who would approach her. Dany heard the dull thud of horses hooves on packed dirt, and turning she saw Jorah and Daario Naharis rapidly moving towards her from the rear of the assemblage, where the crowd was sparse. The bonfire was a pile of smoldering embers by now and her clothing was bits of ash.

Daenerys stepped forward as far as her chains would allow her. ‘These are my people, too,’ she told herself, as she took a deep breath. Once Valyria had ruled this place and her ancestors had filled the skies above her. These were all her people.

“Follow me,” she shouted over the gathered slaves and Dothraki. “Follow me and be free. Follow me and be victorious. Follow me and I will write your names in the stars; that all men may know your deeds long after you are dead!”

It was not the way of the Dothraki or their slaves to cheer or clap their approval, but as Dany watched their gazes move from the dead Khals to Drogon to her, she knew that they were hers. Some slipped away, some rode quickly out of the city, but most stayed and carefully watched her and her dragon.

Ser Jorah Mormont reached her first. He dropped from his horse, pulled out a spare blanket, and waded through the still smoldering pyre, while Daario Naharis drew his blade and planted himself before the crow, eyeing them in a distinctly unfriendly fashion.

“Khaleesi,” he said as he reached her, draping the blanket around her naked form. He looked haggard and worn at the edges, almost ill, but he was here, and Dany realized just how tired she was. She smiled up at him. “I knew you would come,” she told him, watching a darkness in his eyes lighten at her confession.

“Always,” he said, low and intense, before swinging his sword and separating her chains from the pure. He took her arm to help her down – for her hands were still bound – but she noted that he used the wrong hand, and that he was wincing from the heat of the embers. Luckily, his boots were too thick and reinforced to catch fire easily.

“Are you alright?” she asked, but she didn’t believe his reassurances. She narrowed her eyes at him, but decided now was not the time to press.

“Daario Naharis,” she greeted the younger man, nodding her thanks. “Who had you left in charge of my city?”

“Missandei and Grey Worm,” Daario said instantly.

Jorah’s face was expressionless. “And Tyrion Lannister.”

Dany thought about this. “Will he prove inexpert,” she asked curiously. She had heard that the dwarf had been placed in charge of King’s Landing by Lord Tywin during the battle with Stannis Baratheon.

The northern Knight grimaced. “Lannisters always betray, Khaleesi. Just ask your father. Or Ned Stark. Or his son, for that matter, the one they called the Young Wolf.”  
Dany frowned. “We will just have to hope that Tyrion Lannister is not his father or his sister. Or his brother.” She remembered her dream of the Kingslayer’s haunted green eyes as he watched her father burn men alive. She shook her head, and then raised her voice to address the still-silent crowd. “Tonight we will stay here, and tomorrow we march for Mereen.”

They made a tent for her on the outskirts of Vaes Dothrak. Some of the more ambitious former slaves hunted down the crones who had escaped Drogon’s fire and brought her their heads until Dany forbid it. Daario went out to assess which of the men would prove useful as guards, and Jorah stalked her side like a shadow as she organized people, having them vote in their own leaders, and explaining to them how she wanted the march to her city to take place.

It was dark, and she was hungry and extremely tired, by the time she was able to be alone with Jorah Mormont. Some of the younger women and made a hunt in the belonging of the dead Khals and brought her lovely dresses in all shades of red and black. “For your dragon,” the told her in broken Westerosi or broke Dothraki. Some even attempted to speak to her in the bastardized Valyrian of the Free Cities.

Dany, running her hands down the silk black dress with the red underskirt she had chosen, sighed quietly. 

“You inspire them, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah told her quietly. 

He had been all but silent since he had freed her from the pyre. Dany stood and went over to him. Although cold outside now, her tent was warmed by several braziers, and in their bright glow Dany studied Jorah Mormont’s face. Raising a hand up, she rested it on his cheek and watched as he closed his eyes and involuntarily leaned into her touch.

“What are you hiding from me now, Jorah?” she whispered. His eyes opened and he made to take a step back from her, but she followed him, not releasing him. “Tell me,” she commanded; stern; his queen.

Slowly he turned his left hand over and removed the cloth that was bound there. Greyscale was spreading up his arm. Dany gasped, her hand dropping from his face and reaching towards it.

“No!” he shouted, snatching his arm back from her. Even faster she grabbed his arm in both hands, her eyes furious and intent on his.

“You cannot harm me with this,” she told him, “have no fear. When I was a child in Pentos, I managed to evade Viserys one day and I wandered into the part of the city reserved for those with greyscale before they were sent to live with the stone men. I was too young, too naïve, to know what it was they had. I touched them to give comfort, until someone snatched me away in horror. But I never got the disease. I never even Viserys or Magister Illyrio that I had gone there. There is dragon blood in me, and too much fire to ever be turned to stone.”

And she reached out and ran her fingers lightly down Jorah Mormont’s arm. He shuddered at her touch. “Khaleesi,” he begged, his voice raw and rasping. Whether he begged her to stop or to continue she did not think even he knew.

“You are dying, yes?” she asked instead. “You cannot tell me that you do not want this.”

He could not. 

She stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was breathing as hard as he, but still he made no move to draw her closer. “I am right here, right now, so take what you want,” she told him, and wondered that her voice trembled. She had never wanted this. With Daario it was simple; her heart was never involved. But with Jorah….he had the power to hurt her, and that scared her more than anything else ever had. 

Daenerys brought her lips hard to his, pulling him tight against her. His faint moan shot a thrill of desire through her, and then he was kissing her back, his hands running up her back, tangling in her hair. He bore her down to the pillow-strewn floor, his body covering hers, hard, insistent, and fierce. He closed his eyes as he entered her, as if it was all too much, but Dany kept hers fixed on his face, tracing every line and every curve.

His hands trembled as they touched her skin, and Daenerys wanted to cry, but she kissed him again instead.  
When they were done, he fell asleep in her arms, and only then did she allow several tears to break free.

And she thought, very carefully, on who she would get, by any means necessary, to cure him.

 

&……&……&……&……&……&

 

Notes: Dany/Jorah for your reading pleasure. Also a bit of past history with Rhaegar, young Ned and Lyanna! I really want to write a one-shot for Lyanna/Rhaegar. Let me know if anyone’s interested. I was going to have Daenerys in the Great Dothraki Sea, but as the new promo for Season 6 shows her entering Vaes Dothrak, I re-wrote the scene to take place before all the Dothraki there. Davos is up next, so we’ll find out what’s happening with the Manderlys and the other Northern lords, and how they react to Sansa’s calling of the banners! Plus there will be a surprise appearance by a Stark next chapter!


	12. Davos II

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! I have no idea what Skagos is going to look like in the Books or Show, so this is simply a product of my own imagination. Also, real life has been kicking my butt, so that’s why the updates have been so very, very slow. Sorry. As of now this weekend is looking pretty clear, so in honor of Game of Thrones coming back (yay!) I’ll try and get out as many updates as possible. Goal is three total this weekend.

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

Davos

&……&……&……&

Davos Seaworth watch the commotion in the Mermen’s Court from the high windows of his cell. The bars were extremely high up and his arms shook with the strain of holding himself against them, but the scene outside was worth it.

Riders galloped to and fro, looking harried and worn. People all along the streets of White Harbor met in small groups, whispered together, disbanded, and then formed new small groups. The two Umbers in the cell next to him were shouting something in their harsh, guttural accents and though the argument was lost on Davos, the excited tone in their voices was not. 

Sometime around midday there was a sudden hush in the streets. Davos had been lying on the – fairly clean – straw pallet they had provided him with, hands behind his head, and absently watching the stone ceiling. It was so cold now that the damp cells had frozen, little veins of white ice coating the top of his prison with beautiful and fragile designs.

When the commotion outside started – like a sudden shout followed by everyone trying to act normal – Davos had a sudden suspicion and moved to his window to investigate. The wind from the sea was bitterly cold, his teeth started chattering immediately, but it was worth it. There below him, clattering up the wide, white cobblestones that made up White Harbor, rode two men dressed in the leather and mail of House Stark, riding beneath a banner of a grey direwolf on a white field.

A sudden momentary stillness rippled through the northerners before they averted their eyes and went about their business, but Davos watched and noticed how they discreetly observed the Stark bannermen as they rod all the up to Lord Manderly’s palace and vanished out of sight.

Northerners were hard and cold, difficult to read Davos had found, but he felt the excitement, the hope, like a palpable force within them even from his cell. He saw the call, the pull of their loyalty to House Stark that they felt in their bones, burning in their faces, their rigid postures. He had never met people who viewed their lords as these northerners did. He thought of Jon Snow’s rigid honor and strategic brilliance, Sansa Stark’s effortless grace and her keen observational skills, her ability to identify talent and loyalty, her ability to unite people, and he remembered the fierce revereance these hard people had for the murdered Ned Stark, Jon and Sansa’s father.

He smiled grimly. Something was happening, he could feel it. Sansa Stark had been right to believe that her people were just waiting for a Stark to return and lead them.

Next door the Umbars were suspiciously quiet, like two bears unsure of who to attack first. He heard their shuffling around the cell as they paced, restless and caged. He moved over to the edge of his barred window, as close to them as he could get.

“Lady Stark is calling the banners,” he told them, pitching his voice low enough to avoid attention from the guards, but clear enough to be heard of the north wind. He remembered what Jon Snow and his sister had said about the Umbers, and who they would follow. “Her half-brother, Lord Jon Snow, has joined her and will command the Stark forces. He was very close to, and trained with, you king.”

There was a long pause in the movements next door. Davos could feel others farther down the line of cells straining to hear him as well.

“And who be ye?” demanded a gruff voice after several moments.

Davos had to think about this one for a bit. ‘Who was he?’ He had spent most of his life as Stannis’ man, he had wanted to see Stannis crowned king, and he would have died for Stannis; but Stannis Baratheon had broken every principle he had claimed to stand for when he gave his daughter’s ashes and bones to the northern winds. And besides, Stannis was a Stark man now.

Life was as ever-changing and unpredictable as the sea.

But Davos himself was still a southerner, a sailor and a knight. He had no place in this harsh, strange, snow-covered land. His gods were not the old gods and his blood was salt not stone. He was a summer child – still as green as summer grass next to the men of the Night’s Watch – and he had no winter in his bones.

Yet as he thought about it, he realized the answer was very simple; he was someone who did the right thing, who tried to at least. Winter was coming, it was upon them, and Davos knew in his summer bones that the Starks were needed in the north, or the whole Realm would fall.

“I am loyal to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” he told the Umbers. “He has pledged himself to his sister, Lady Stark, and together they will takeback Winterfell and the North.”

There was a rumbling from the other cell. The Umbers approved of his answer, and appeared to have no reservations about the Night’s Watch getting involved in the wars of the realm.

“It’s about time, by the gods,” growled one.

The other one, apparently the logical thinker of the two, sounded deadly as he said, “Fat old Manderly has to be got round though. He’s in with the Bolton scum.”

Davos smiled again. “I think you are misjudging Lord Wyman. He is as cunning as they come. And Lady Stark trusts him.”

“Yes, and her brother trusted Roose Bolton.”

“Her father trusted old king Robert.”

To play the game you had to see the game, Davos knew; something that Stannis had all but blinded himself from. “Lady Sansa was trained at the Court in King’s Landing.” Davos remembered the young woman’s watchful, wary, and assessing eyes. The gentle blue would go as hard and cold as shards of ice as she evaluated the men around her brother. Sansa Stark was no fool. “She has learned well,” he said simply.

He remembered the answers Stannis had received from the northern lords when he had requested their oaths of loyalty.

‘I know of no king but the king in the North, whose name is Stark,’ 10-year-old Lyanna Mormont had declared defiantly. He remembered Jon Snow’s smile.

“Ned Stark’s daughter has made it home, against all odds, to claim her rightful place.”

The silence this time was heavy and filled with undercurrents.

“Aye,” agreed one of the Umber’s, his quiet, fierce tone telling Davos that he had said the right thing.

The Great Hall of the Mermen’s Court was filled from end to end as Davos was marched across it. It was also silent in the northern way; everyone would stoically wait to see what Lord Manderly decided, before making up their own minds. Behind him stalked the Umbers, less prisoners and more caged beasts, giving the impression more than ever that at any moment they would break free of their captures and start mauling people before escaping back into the wilderness.  
Rumor had it that the Umbers still practiced First Night, although the Starks would behead them if they found this to be true.

Davos also had a sneaking suspicion that any woman the Umbers managed to haul off would be earned in blood, for the men and women on Umber land were fierce and stubborn, used to Wildling raids and feuds with the mountain clans.

Davos made sure to keep out of arms reach of them all the same.

On the dais sat Lord Wyman, alone and in all his corpulent glory. His small eyes were almost invisible in his mounds of fat as he watched them approach. Before him, separated by his personal guard, stood the Stark bannermen on one side, and an assortment of Freys on the other. The tension in the Hall was making Davos wish Jon Snow had never sent him on this errand. 

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” Lord Wyman boomed, so suddenly hat Black Walder Rivers jumped and his brother, Ser Ryman, laughed at him. “Look what we have here.” Lord Wyman waved between the Stark men and the Freys. If Davos was not mistaken, Lord Manderly sounded delighted. He looked like Shireen, his little princess, had when he had given her the horse he had carved; like they had received the perfect gift.

The memory of Shireen was still unbelievably bitter, but Davos could not help suppressing an amused smile at the fat northern lord. The Starks had been right about him.

“Doesn’t look like a hard choice is required here, my lord,” he answered.

The huge man’s eyes sparked. “Really, Ser Davos? Despite what my granddaughter said at our last meeting? My brave Wylla?”

Wylla Manderly was not in the Hall today. Davos had liked her very much indeed and he hoped that Lord Wyman had gone gently with her.

“She did not change your mind, my lord,” Davos returned evenly. “You had made it up long ago.”

One of the Umbers growled in annoyance. “Cease this lordly southron speech shit and get to point, Manderly. Will you honor the call of your liege lords or not?”  
Lord Wyman said nothing.

“You’ve been a cowardly, traitorous dog long enough,” shouted the other one. That, finally, seemed to get a rise out of the Lord of White Harbor.

“Hothar Umber, my loyalty is beyond question, and I have done more than you and all your House combined with your belligerent attitudes and inability to understand the mean of the word ‘subtlety.’” His head whipped around towards the Freys, who were starting to look slightly wary as though worried things might not be going all their way. He nodded at his guards. “Leave Olyvar, escort the rest to the edge of my city. We have no further use for their scum.” Lord Wyman’s rather dull tones sharpened to a hard point. “Ser Ryman Frey, I have a message for your father about how we deal with oathbreakers in the North. You may inform him that not only has he lost House Manderly as an ally, but that his sons have become cannibals of their own kin; a fitting punishment for betrayers.” He leaned forward, piercing Ryman Frey with a face suffused in fury. “You may inform your father that I baked the last traitorous scions he sent to me into the pies you ate at the Welcoming Feast. As breakers of Guest Right, you may gift him with some of the leftovers with my compliments.”

The uproar from Black Walder was tremendous and Rhaegar Frey almost fainted. The Great Hall itself filled with the susurration of many voices all murmuring heatedly at once. The Freys were dragged from the Hall amid the growing jeers of the Northmen.

“The North remembers,” Manderly called after them. “You tell that scum, Walder Frey, that the North is rising; and we will come for him.”

When the Freys were gone Lord Wyman turned to the Stark men. “A thousand years ago the Starks awarded my ancestors the Wolf’s Den and tasked us with defending the White Knife, and we have held this land in their name ever since. Now what does House Stark need from White Harbor?”

After the Stark bannermen had left, Lord Manderly promised, “Every minstrel in the Seven Kingdoms is going to be telling the tale of the Frey pies by the end of a fortnight.” The Lord of White Harbor and his castellan, Ser Cregan, were meeting privately with Davos after the uproar from the expulsion of the Freys had died down.

“Did you know, Ser Davos, that when I sent word to Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing that I had had you executed, she agreed to release my son Wylis from the Twins?” He paced back and forth, his extensive girth swirling around him. “According to the last reports I received, Ser Jaime Lannister released my son himself, and put him on a ship at Maidenpool. They are three days out to sea already, and far beyond the reach of the Lannisters or the Boltons now.”

Davos was run out by this time but Lord Manderly was in his element. His castellan merely looked long-suffering. “The call from the Starks could not have come at a better time. I have twenty-three new warships ready to sail, a city full of angry refugees to man them with, and I am quite sure that the Council in King’s Landing knows nothing about either.”

“Where have they called the banners to?” Davos asked him.

Manderly sounded extremely satisfied. “The Last Harth. Mors and Hothar had to hightail it out of here in order to make preparations. Good men, good men,” he added hastily, “but brash, rash, and mostly unable to see pas their own noses. I’ll rest easier when the Greatjon is back to keep them in line. Although he is still at the Twins I believe.”

“Is Lady Stark aware of the captives at The Twins?” Ser Cregan asked.

Davos rubbed his temples. He could watch the crashing waves of the sea from Manderly’s high window. “She is. The fact that Walder Frey and most of his posse are encamped around Riverrun at the moment makes it easier, she said. She’s dealing with the situation.” He didn’t feel the need to explain that Sansa Stark had sent big, ungainly Brienne of Tarth and a plump squire named Podrik Payne – who was attached to House Lannister no less – to free the captives. Davos had never seen the plain woman fight, but he had never seen a woman fight well in his entire life, so he didn’t hold onto much hope.

Lady Stark had merely smiled and shook her head when he had broached his reservations, and Jon Snow had looked at him with something approaching amusement. So he had let it alone. Now he holed the Tarth woman had reached the Twins without running into Jaime Lannister marching north. Events were starting to move more quickly, and there were so many pieces.

“The Blackfish is still holding out at Riverrun?” he asked instead.

Lord Wyman chuckled. “Lady Catelyn’s uncle is a formidable man. Even his own nephew, held at the Twins, has not deterred him from his defiance. If he hears of his great-niece claiming Winterfell, it will only inspire him to new heights of rebellion.”

“That’s why the Queen finally sent her brother, the Kingslayer, to deal with the situation. The Riverlands was the last holdout from the War of the Five Kings, and needed to be suppressed quickly. Especially now that Lord Tywin is dead and there is unrest between the Lannisters and the Martells,” Lord Cregan explained.

Davos grunted. From what he knew of Jaime Lannister’s reputation, he did not seem like a man with the patience for a siege. The queen should have sent her uncle, Lord Kevan, to bring Riverrun in line. “And Wylla?” Davos wondered if she would still be punished for speaking out. “What have you done with her?”

Lord Wyman’s smile was fond on his florid face. “Not many are as brave as my Wylla. Or her sister, Wynafred, who knew what I was about and kept silent. Young Olyvar Frey was quite adamant about defending Wylla; so much so that it caused an argument between them.” He chuckled, and then grew thoughtful. “As the heir to White Harbor after her father, Wylla needs to make a good match. Perhaps I shall arrange a union between Manderly and Frey after all.”

Then Lord Manderly fixed the former smuggler with a shrewd gaze. “Now, why are you really here at White Harbor, Ser Davos?”

Davos studied Wyman Manderly and Ser Cregan. Trusting people was no dangerous giving how high the stakes were, and Lord Wyman was a frighteningly cunning man. He cleared his throat.

“We have undisputable evidence that the youngest Stark did not die at the hands of the Greyjoys several years ago, but fled east. I have found no trace of him at his original destination – with the Umbers. Lady Stark and Lord Snow request any knowledge you may have on the whereabouts of their brother, Rickon Stark.”

The ship Lord Manderly placed under Davos’ command from amongst his vast and expanding fleet was a sturdy and fast beauty. Her mostly flat bottom made her perfect for swift movement on the rivers, but slightly more dangerous to operate on open waters. But the weather was surprisingly fine the first day out, with the sun even peaking though the heavy cloud cover at times, so Davos ordered the stunsils to be raised to coax even more speed from the vessel, and settled back to enjoy this brief moment of respite. He knew that he would need it for Lord Manderly had sent to Skagos.

“We have heard stories from there of a wild, wolf boy who, on nights when the moon is bright, turns into a huge beast and attacks people and livestock. The stories say he is controlled by a terrible witch who uses him to kill her enemies.”

Lord Wyman had looked amused. “As a teller and promotor of stories myself,” he said, obviously referring to his attempts at spreading the tales of the Frey pies, “I understand the power in the telling, but I still urge caution, Ser Davos. If this is indeed Rickon Stark and the wildling woman you tell me is with him, it has been several years since he was with his family. The Starks are….” He contemplated his answer, “…not like other men. The old blood flows in them strongly. Maybe no to the extent it does in the Targaryens, but it seems to rise up in adversity, of the old tales are true. Therefore, be careful.”

Davos had felt no anxiety in the presence of Jon Snow, very little sense of otherness in Sansa Stark, and had spent many years in the present of Melisandre of Asshai, who could do   
things no other man or woman could, but he heeded the warning all the same. 

However it wasn’t Rickon Stark and the wildling woman which troubled him most; it was the island of Skagos itself.

From all the reports Davos had heard from a life at sea, Skagos was an island of cannibals, a place of horror where very few who landed there ever made it out again. It was said to be a near-barren wasteland, with men and women who were little more than animals, remnants of Wildlings who had escaped from beyond the Wall thousands of years ago. Davos could understand why the wildling woman, Osha, would go there, but why she would bring a small Stark boy with her was beyond his understanding.  
Skagos came into view on the third day out from White Harbor. Davos stood at the prow of the ship and watched its jagged coastline grow ever larger. The unease of the crew, filled with Locke-men and Flint-men, grew with it. Ser Davos checked that he had the letter from the Starks sewn deep within his jerkin, tighten his sword around his belt, and faced the crew.

“We will dock well back from the coast. I ask only that two men row me to the island. They need wait on the shore, but may return to the ship. You will stay here for seven days, and if I am not back by then you may assume that I have failed and return to that report to Lord Manderly, who will inform Lady Stark.”

The crew seemed much relieved at this command, but Davos, standing on the sandy beach and watching the two men row back as quickly as they were able, could not still the pounding of his heart or the nauseous feeling in his stomach. He told himself that the Red Woman was more frightening than any cannibal, that the wildfire in the Battle of the Blackwater was more destructive than any clan of savages, and that he was doing what he had promised he would do; find a lost child.  
But it did not help.

Davos pushed thoughts of Shireen to the front of his mind. The guilt that he had left her, that he had failed her, that she died all alone in the flames, with not a single, friendly face around her; that she had been terrified and in pain and he had not save her, ate at him like rust.

He had promised Jon Snow and Lady Stark that he would find Rickon Stark in part because here was another lost child, surrounded by unfriendly eyes, alone in the world, but Davos could do something about this; he could find him and bring him back to his family.

So he climbed the cliffs, slowly, hand over hand, sword clutched tightly between his teeth and the wind buffeting him. The cliffs were hundreds of feet high, but Davos, smuggler that he was, found the hidden handholds, the cunningly carved paths that the people here must use to get from their villages inland to the sea.

It was the land on the other side that shocked him. Skagos was barren but for scraggily pines – everyone knew that – but the land hidden on the other side of the tall cliffs was not barren at all. It rapidly descended downwards, pine and fir giving way to oak and beech and willow and birch. The air grew warmer, protected from the harsh northern winds, and Davos heard birds calling to one another, saw grey squirrels and red squirrels, foxes and badgers and even deer, darting beneath underbrush that grew ever lusher the longer he walked. 

He stopped for an evening meal, still wary and watchful, in a clearing that was untouched by snow or frost, and which was filled with wildflowers and the strange, red-faced weirwoods that Davos saw everywhere in the north, but of which there was no presence of on Dragonstone. He leaned against one and munched on an apple, keeping a wary eye out on the darting shadows.

He had not seen even the slightest presence of any natives, and that worried him more than anything else. Skagos was several miles across, but it wasn’t a big island by any means and it was rumored to have many people living here. Some sign of human presence, even cannibalistic human presence, was to be expected.  
Davos eventually found a good tree, easy to climb for a man of his age, and hauled himself up into the branches for the night.

He couldn’t exactly say that he was surprised to be woken up by rough hands hauling him down, blindfolding him, and marching him away. ‘Well,’ he told himself bracingly, ‘at least I don’t have to bumble around on my own anymore. These men will take me right where I want to go anyway.’

He wondered if he should tell them not to eat him until he had asked the leader whether a fearsome wolf-boy lived nearby, but the sharp knocks he received on the back of the head any time he began to speak convinced him to keep quiet. 

The sky was overcast but light by the time Davos was shoved down on his knees and the blindfold was removed. He blinked rapidly, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the sudden change, and found himself in a rather large clearing, surrounded by strange wooden houses on all sides. 

The houses were made of huge wooden logs, all laid horizontally, and culminating in an overhanging, peaked roof made of carved wooden boards. The houses all had thick, glass windows with ornately carved wooden shutters. Wood crenellations, carved in beautiful and ornate designs, hung from the roofs, the windows, the porches and even, on occasion, wooden balconies. 

Everything was neat and tidy and beautiful. There was a huge, communal well in the center of the village, next to a communal pen for cows and sheep and goats and pigs. There was a building that looked like a village meeting Hall, and one that looked like either a place of worship or a place of music or even a place of judgment; it was a bit hard to describe.

The men wore thick, woolen clothes, with brightly colored hats and all had beards and pipes. The women wore long dresses, brightly colored scarves and shawls over their heads, and studied him like an execution squad. They were all gathered together at the center of the open village square, but they were not gathered for him.

At the very center of their encirclement, obviously pausing in the midst of battle, stood a tall, rangy, hard-faced woman and an extremely burly man with blood dripping from a cut down one cheek.

“What have we here?” demanded the woman, her accent northern-thick but clear and fluent in the common tongue.

“Outsider,” grunted one of Davos’ captors.

The woman lost interest. She waved a dismissive hand. “Well, I’ll deal with him after I’ve dealt with this traitorous scum,” she snapped. She hefted up the long, deadly, double-edged spear she wielded, and went back onto the attack.

Davos, remaining on his knees, watched between two women. The villagers remained quiet, but they watched with the keen eyes of those who were used to watching such displays and who, moreover, knew how to fight themselves. 

Occasionally someone shouted out advice or encouragement to one side or the other. The hard-faced woman was fast and brutal, her jabs with the spear quick and precise, her feet always firm on the ground, and her movements coming from unexpected directions. The big man was fast as well, quicker on his feet, but sloppier in his strikes. He also tired faster, the big axe he used coming in slower and slower blows that the woman easily blocked or avoided.

They spun and they slashed, eyes intent, a fierce snarl on the woman’s face and fury and fear on the man’s.

Davos had no idea who would win this fight, and he found that absolutely fascinating. He watched the woman’s long legs, barely visible under her threadbare, rough skirts. He watched the huge muscles in the man’s arms, the grunt he gave as the woman stabbed the spear hard into his gut. The leather jerkin he wore took the majority of the blow, but the tip pierced him all the same.

He stumbled, the woman whipped the spear around above her, wailing it down hard on the back of his head. The man dropped to his knees. The woman’s right leg came up, out, and snapped in a kick to the man’s temple. He landed faced own on the ground, his left fist still clenched around the handle of his axe. The woman stomped hard on that hand with one foot, scooping up the axe with her free hand, and then stepped back from her fallen foe. 

She leaned nonchalantly on her spear, its point in the dirt. “Any other challengers for this week?” she inquired, her hard, unfriendly eyes going around the circle. No one else volunteered. “Good.” She waved an annoyed hand towards the fallen man. “Someone do something with him or I might change my mind and kill him after all.”

Two of his friends came and lifted him up under the armpits, ignoring his groans as they dragged him away. Several other villagers approached the woman to congratulate her. There was a sudden movement from the far side of the houses, a streak of dark black, growling, the wild laughter of a child, and then a tall, young boy burst through the crowd and threw himself at the woman who caught him and swung him around.

“That was brilliant!” he enthused, his dark-blonde curls catching the light. His blue eyes were the same shade as his sister’s. “Mora was sure that this one would defeat you, but I told her that that was impossible.”

The woman, obviously the wilding, Osha, laughed. “Not today, little wolf,” she promised him, “not today.”

The boy’s direwolf, huge and black and fearsome, loped away from his circling of the woman and his master, and towards Davos. Davos’ hands were tied, and he was still on his knees, but he figured that was preferable. “Shaggydog,” he greeted the creature, remembering Ghost’s unceasing vigil by Jon Snow’s side, and he lowered his face for the direwolf to sniff.

Osha and Rickon Stark stilled and turned to stare at him. Shaggydog sniffed Davos Seaworth all over; where Ghost was calm and watchful, Shaggydog was all nervous energy, wild eyes, and constant growling, but Davos refused to show fear.

“Your brother, Ghost, is doing well,” he told the big creature, more for Rickon’s and Osha’s sake, than the wolf’s, although maybe it could understand his meaning. Shaggydog barked loudly, licked Davos so roughly that the onion knight fell right over, and then bounded back to young Rickon Stark.

Osha stalked over. “Release him,” she snapped, and Davos was hauled to his feet, his bounds cut, and shoved towards her. “Who are you?” she demanded, the point of her spear jabbing threateningly into his neck. Her other arm kept a firm hold on Rickon, holding him beyond her and well beyond Davos’ reach.

“Shaggydog likes him,” the boy pointed out, sounding sullen and annoyed at this treatment. Davos’ eyes were drawn to him again. He looked like his mother’s side of the family, handsome, well-fed, clear-eyed and intelligent, with the Tully-round face. There was a restless energy to him as well, his long limbs, and fierce eyes a counterpart to his wolf. There was none of Jon Snow’s strict control in him, none of Sansa Stark’s quiet stillness, he was all movement and vitality, but he was undoubtedly a Stark.

“My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, young sir,” he said, addressing the boy he had come to find and trying to ignore the woman’s weapon at his throat. “I was sworn to King Stannis Baratheon before his defeat, and have now given my loyalty and life to Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I bring you a letter from your brother and sister.” He did not know if Osha wanted Rickon’s identity to be known to these people, or if she had kept it secret all this while. He suspected the latter, given her defense of the boy. So he did not directly address his status as a Stark. “They miss you and ask that you come home.”

His eyes met Osha’s stern, assessing gaze. He could read her love for this boy in every inch of her body. “The other brother, the one you loved as well,” he told her slowly, referring to Bran Stark, “he is beyond the Wall, but he is alive. His brother and sister are sure of it.”

Osha’s eyes closed, once, and then she opened them again and dropped her spear; only an inch but it was still something.

Davos slowly, very slowly, reached his hand into the hidden pocket within his jerkin. He withdrew the letter bearing the seal of House Stark and the crest of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, kept his eyes only on Osha, and slowly handed the letter to Rickon Stark.

“I’ve been teaching Osha to read,” the boy confided, taking the letter and ripping it open. “Jon and Sansa are alive?” he breathed wonderingly. 

“And Bran,” Osha said. “And Bran.”

“What about Arya?” Rickon demanded, and Davos knew that that was the other Stark girl, the wild one, the wolf-girl, who had vanished from King’s Landing and hadn’t been heard or seen from since. 

“I do not know,” he said, but Rickon looked so excited that Jon and Sansa were alive and well, that this news did not shake him.

Most of the villagers had wandered off back to their own daily tasks, and few if any were paying the three of them the least bit of attention. An older man was waiting patiently, obviously for Osha to acknowledge him, but Osha still grabbed Davos in her other hand – tucking the spear under her arm – and hauled them all over to a relatively secluded corner.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. 

“Sansa has called the banners,” Rickon said excitedly, still laboriously pouring over the letter. He read at the same slow speed Davos did, and the knight suspected that the boy had had no book learning since he had left Winterfell years before.

“Shhh,” Osha hissed at him. “Do you want everyone to hear?”

Rickon was unrepentant. “She’s called the banners and the North will rise. Jon will lead the army and we’re taking back Winterfell!” He whooped excitedly, dancing around and around with Shaggydog until the two of them were rolling over and over in the dirt, the direwolf playing nipping at the boy, sharing his ebullience. 

“Stop that!” Osha snapped sternly, but they paid her not the least mind. The wildling woman rolled her eyes. “Your brother was much better behaved, and the oldest one was a gentleman and a true lord. You, however, are a small, demonic ruffian.”

Rickon just laughed at her, his blue eyes bright with joy. “Can we go home now, Osha?” he asked, and Davos realized that he was only just slightly older than Shireen, so very young to have lost so much. “Can we really go home now?”

Osha’s eyes softened and she squatted down next to the boy. “Yes little lord,” she said, “if your brother and sister take back the castle, we can go home.”

“They’re going to need help.” Rickon stilled, looking suddenly contemplative. 

“No,” Osha said instantly. “No, no, no. We are not doing that. Put that idea out of your mind at once.”

“What idea?” Rickon asked, in such an innocent tone of voice that Davos was instantly suspicious. “I’m not thinking anything!” he promised.

“It’s bad enough we have one wolf running around without any more. You’re a wild animal, child. Your old Maester would not thank me if he saw you now.”

“Wild!” Rickon agreed, bounding up and running off, Shaggydog loping after him. “Wild and free and fierce!” He shouted back at the two adults.

Osha frowned after them both, boy and wolf. “Wargs,” she muttered disgustedly, but Davos could tell that she was more worried than annoyed.

“His brother and sister will be a help,” he tried to console her. “He is still so young.”

Osha swung back around to face him then, as though remembering his presence, and jabbed him furiously in the sternum. “I don’t need any assistance from you, old man,” she snapped. “And if this is some sort of trap, or I get any kind of suspicion that you are lying to me, I’ll pull your guts out through your throat.”

Davos swallowed rapidly, but he followed her through the village, watching village girls gather together in the square, ribbons in their hair, as they practiced a complicated dance.

“We are celebrating the beginning of winter today,” the old man who waited for Osha explained to the onion knight. “There will be feasting and dancing and music, and at midnight we will have a huge bonfire where we will burn anything not needed for the winter years. It is a time of renewal and rebirth. It is tradition. Osha says that you will be staying the night.”

Davos looked around him again. Something had been preying on his mind. “What about the cannibals?” he asked at last.

Osha and old man laughed. 

“What better way to keep people away from this place than to spread stories of eating merchants and sailors who land here?” the old man asked, smiling. “Our village leaders decided this strategy many, many years ago. The Starks left us alone after awhile and we refrained from killing the people who accidentally landed here. Most of the time we kept them, but occasionally we sent them to the Wall.”

The old man frowned. “But everything is changing now. Strange ships have been sighted coming both from the south and the north, and we fear the white demons from the north have stirred once more.”

Davos exchanged a look with Osha. 

“We leave tomorrow,” the wilding woman said, before she spun around and stalked off in the other direction, barking orders to several of the men and women.

Davos closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Mother save us, Father guide us,’ he thought. Around him he heard the laughter of the women, the wailing of the strange, and stringed instruments as they tuned and practiced, and in the distance he heard the sharp, lonely howling of a wolf.

&…….&……..&…….&……….&………&

This chapter was going to be longer, but I feel like what needed to be described about Osha and Rickon’s situation was. Let me know if you want more about Skagos, or Wylla and Olvyar, or Osha. Next chapter will be Sam. And then Brienne. Hoping to get at least one done tonight. Don’t worry, Arya will make an appearance sooner rather than later.


	13. Sam

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! Sam and Oldtown are next. This is the part in the books that I feel like so much is happening under the service, and we have no idea about any of it. I wonder if any the subplot with the Maesters will make it into the show.

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Sam

 

&……&……&……&

 

Samwell Tarly had only been a novice at the Citadel for a week before he realized that something suspicious was going on.  
Sam, Gilly and the baby had arrived at the ancient city of Oldtown – founded by the First Men before recorded history and located at the fork of the Honeywine river – to the news that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had been murdered by his own men. For the second time.

Sam hadn’t believed it, and he had kept not believing it until he stood before the Council of Maesters to present the letter from Jon, and a letter from Maester Aemon before his passing, and Archmaester Norren told him that the news was true.

“Were you close with the bastard of Winterfell?” asked Archmaester Ebrose. “Do you need a moment?” He did not sound very sympathetic, or willing to give Sam even half a second.  
Gilly made an abortive movement towards him from her place by the door, but Sam shook his head violently.

“I’ll be fine……I’ll be fine,” he promised the Maesters, before he threw up all over the marble floor. 

The room was spinning, everything blurring together, and he would have fallen heavily into his own vomit had Gilly not appeared by his side, linking her arm in his and holding him in place. Baby Sam was cradled in her other arm. Sam heard the baby’s bright gurgling as he watched the shifting light in the Hall of the Maesters.

Sam tried to focus. “Forgive me,” he murmured to the Maesters. He tried to put his feelings into words that the stern old men seated before would understand. He had spent so long at the Wall that he forgot the rest of the Seven Kingdoms feelings towards those of illegitimate birth. Jon Snow was simply Ned Stark’s bastard to these privileged sons of noble families. He wasn’t………

The room spun again and Sam ruthlessly tore his thoughts away from anything related to who Jon really was.

He opened his mouth and nothing but a squeak came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Lord Commander Snow was a brave and good man, a great fighter and a talented leader. His loss will be greatly felt at the Wall and by the Seven Kingdoms,” he said formally, taking his words from one of the scrolls he had read in the ancient library at Castle Black.

Old Achmaester Marwyn nodded. “I am sure that it will. We welcome you to the Citadel, Black Brother, for the sake of our departed brother, Maester Aemon, and based on the request of your previous Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“You will start your novice training in learning the arts of ravenry, in preparation for your acquisition of the black iron chain link,” Archmaester Perestan boomed. “Ravenry is one of the most important arts that a Maester learns. News is what links this realm together, and without it we are blind and stumbling in the dark.”  
Sam nodded seriously.

“Maester Aemon has also asked us to take in this young woman………Gilly, as a servant.” Archmaester Ryam frowned. Women were only allowed in the Citadel between certain hours, and in certain places. “We will consider this. For now, find her a place in the city itself.”

Sam opened his mouth to request help for the Wall, to ask what the Council knew of the White Walkers, and to seek for any book or scrolls related to the Long Night.

“You are dismissed, Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch,” snapped Achmaester Vaellyn, who Sam knew must be a stargazer as his rod and ring were made of bronze.  
Sam’s open mouth snapped shut. He didn’t have the courage to contradict the Council now. “Yes Archmaesters. Thank you,” he murmured, before hastily bowing and departing the room. Two serving men hurried in as he left, carrying buckets of warm water and several mops. 

Sam felt vaguely guilty that he had not been brave enough to ask the right questions, but his hands were shaking, tears were slowly trailing down his cheeks, and all he wanted to do was cry or scream or find Alliser Thorne and………do something violent to him. 

“Edd better run him through,” he muttered. “And I hope Ghost rips his throat out.”

“Sam?” Gilly asked, worriedly. As they came out into one of the inner courtyard her head snapped up and she looked at the tall towers around them, the windows sparkling in the sunlight, and the hurried intensity of the novies walking past them both with arms overflowing in scrolls, and adorned in plain, black, flowing robes.

“We’ll be fine,” Sam promised her. “We’ll be fine.”

A fellow novice named Pate showed Sam a respectable tavern called the Quill and Tankard which had rooms available for rent. The matron would even pay Gilly to work in the kitchens for a small pittance each week. 

“This city is……very big, isn’t it Sam?” Gilly asked him as he left her there. “It is filled with……so many people.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed, “You should be careful who you trust.” He wanted to say more but he did not want to Gilly to think he did not trust her judgment. She had survived Craster and the Night’s Watch after all. Surely she knew that most men were not to be trusted.

Gilly smiled at him and kissed him. Sam tried to hold onto the press of her soft lips all the way back to the Citadel.

He threw himself into ravenry studies. By the end of the week he had received praise for his expert handling of the birds by Archmaester Willifer. When Saturday came and the other novices slept in from their revelry on Friday, Sam walked to the first, and largest, of the Citadel’s multiple libraries. He walked up to Maester Theomore, who had been sent back from White Harbor by Lord Manderly.

“I am looking for the section of old tales,” he informed the middle-aged Maester. “Stories of Bael the Bard and Night’s King and the Long Night.”

Maester Theomore looked at Sam long and hard before waving him in the right direction, but when Sam got there he found the section woefully, pitifully small. There were minor references to the Long Night in Maester Theobald’s History of Westeros, written during the brief reign of Queen Rheanyra, and a story about the Last Hero in a book called Legends and Myths, by an anonymous author, but that was it. In the entire section. 

Sam, surprised, moved to the next section, absently flipping through pages and pulling open scrolls, hoping he had just gotten the section wrong, hoping that something would turn up unexpectedly.

On a hunch he closed all the books and wandered up and down the rows. He found histories of the Targaryens and all of them mentioned dragons, but nothing specific about them. He found mentions of dragons in the zoology section, but again, nothing specific. There was nothing about how to hatch them, how to raise them, how to train, or even how to fly with them. There was a lot on how to kill them.

Sam closed the book he was skimming and frowned into the distance. This was just one library and the Citadel boasted at least a dozen. Still it was strange that the bastion of all learning in the Seven Kingdoms had a collection on both dragons and ancient northern history that utterly paled in comparison to the library at Castle Black.  
There Sam had found scrolls that dated thousands of years, and fragments copied on scrolls that dated back even further than that. Dust had coated almost all of these records, but they were there. Here, the scrolls and books were well-kept and beautifully illustrated, but they were new, none of them older than a couple hundred years, and there were gaps in the scholarship that Sam found truly alarming in light of recent events. 

He moved back towards the front of the library, meaning to ask Maester Theomore whether he had missed any sections, when he noticed that the Maester was deep in agitated conversation with two of the Archmaesters from the Council. They were lesser ones, not the Head of a particular discipline, and Sam had not learned their names yet.  
Sam ducked his rather rotund frame behind the nearest shelf and tried to peer discretely over the tops of a pile of scrolls. Maester Theomore pointed in the direction he had sent Sam and the black brother thought he would pass out from the fear; his heart was pounding erratically.

‘You complete coward, Samwell Tarly,’ he chided himself, hoping against hope that none of the Maesters thought to look in his direction. ‘You killed a White Walker. You survived Craster’s Keep and the Battle of Castle Black. You can do this. Jon is counting on you.’

But Jon was dead and Sam had no idea of Edd was alive either. Sam wasn’t sure that he wanted to live in a world that did not have Jon Snow in it any longer, but he reminded himself that Gilly and young Sam were still here with him, and that he needed to find the answers for them.

When Maester Theomore and the two Archmaesters stalked in the direction Sam had been looking for books on the White Walkers, he scurried out from his hiding place, avoided the rather curious gaze of another novice, and took off down the corridor away from the library as fast as his plump legs would carry him. 

Sam didn’t dare check any of the other libraries that day, although at the midday meal he timidly approached Pate and asked the other boy if certain information as restricted in the Citadel. “I don’t want to do the wrong thing and get in trouble,” he confessed to the other boy, which was true as far as it went.

Pate shrugged, his attention more on his food than anything Sam had to say. When Pate’s friends wandered over to join him, Sam took that as his cue to leave. One of them, a slender, dark skinned youth with very curly black hair and an infectious grin, called out to him.

“I’ve heard that you’re excellent in your ravenry studies Sam. Maester Aemon in the Watch must have taught you well. I wouldn’t be surprised if they gave you your first chain any day now.”

Sam smiled at the other boy hesitantly, and then fled. Maester Theormore was coming into the Hall from the south entrance, and he didn’t want any more trouble.

Later that night he tried to explain what was wrong to Gilly as he sat awkwardly on her bed in the little room above the pub. “It’s just the fact that there aren’t any books,” he said, making faces at baby Sam when Gilly’s back was turned.

“But there are lots of books,” she argued, “more books than I ever thought possible, from your descript of it.”

Sam tried again. “But they’re not the right kind of books. I’m looking for books that are………I need a book by Archmaester Harmune called Watchers on the Wall, which talks about the Nightfort and how they defeated the Night’s King and his corpse queen. The ones they have in the first library, they’re not useful.”

“They’re not useful to you, you mean. Maybe you should just keep looking,” she suggested, deftly changing baby Sam’s napkin and placing the dirty one in a bucket of water she had hauled up from the tap downstairs.

“Yes, maybe,” Sam muttered, unconvinced. Gilly, who could barely read, and who had never even seen a book before she came to Castle Black, was probably not the right person to discuss political and scholarly censorship with.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Gilly consoled him. “You always do.”

And that made Sam feel even worse. He promised to watch baby Sam while she worked an hour or so downstairs during their busy period, and half-heartedly waved her off as he moved to the window.

The sun was setting over Oldtown, turning the pale city into a burnished mirage of rosy pinks and burnished umbars and deep, dark purples. Sam listened to the people calling to one another along the streets, watched the lamps being lit as the lamplighters went along the ornate poles which stood outside the houses and pubs and shops, and heard the bells tolling and calling all the Faithful to even prayers at the Septs.

Oldtown was the largest city Sam had ever seen. Logically he knew that King’s Landing held slightly more people, and covered a greater area with its sprawling slums and three great hills, but looking at this great, glittering metropolis, Sam could not picture anything larger.

This ancient city, built before recorded history, gleamed like a white jewel on the banks of the wide, slow-moving Honeywine river. The river’s blue-green waters sparkled off the light, stone walls of the city, and served as a hub of trade for the entire Seven Kingdoms. 

Oldtowns winding, cobblestone streets were cleaner than Sam thought any city’s had a right to be. They also meandered and wandered in a dizzying and unexpected manner that was delightful on a sunny, weekend morning, but was extremely aggravating the rest of the time.

Sam stared at the City Watch patrolling in their new boots and bright, brass buttons and he wished that even a portion of the money spent on them could be sent to the Night’s Watch.

He listened to the clop-clop of those shiny, polished boots and he stood in the shadows of Gilly’s room and watched as his fellow novices came to the Quill and Tankard pub in ones and twos, some already rowdy and drunk, others looking stressed and careworn from a day spent studying with their teachers or studying in one of the seven great libraries.  
Pate came after night had fallen, with a haughty, arrogant boy Sam knew from his childhood, Leo Tyrell, and the boy who had tried to talk to Sam during the midday meal, Alleras, whom Sam had called “the Sphinx.” Pate looked bored as he listened to whatever Leo Tyrell was saying, and Alleras stood a little apart from then, absently fingering an elegant yew boy he carried. 

A little later another of Alleras and Pate’s group of friends, Armen the Acolyte, wandered in with a boy from the massive brood of Freys; Sam thought his name might have been Robert, after Robert Baratheon. 

Sam snorted. Typical of House Frey really. He heard that they even had a Frey named ‘Rhaegar.’

He jumped when Gilly came back into the room. Her eyes immediately darted over towards her son. “How is he?” she asked quietly.

“Sleeping peacefully. How was your shift?”  
Gilly frowned. “There are so many people and they watch me in ways that I do not like. Some of them reach out and….,” she looked deeply uncomfortable, “touch me inappropriately. There was a boy down there, he said his name was Alleras, and he got quite sharp when he noticed those black-robed boys touching me and another of the girls. Her name was Rosey, I think. She’s quite beautiful.” Gilly tugged a strand of dull, brown hair out from her neat knot, and examined it critically. “How did she get so beautiful?”

Sam remembered Jon’s descriptions of his beautiful sister, Sansa, and remembered the face of the flame-haired warrior, Ygritte, as she lay still and cold in death. “The gods give us all different gifts,” he tried, but he didn’t sound convinced even to himself. He knew that his life would have been significantly easier if he had been strong and handsome and fierce like his brother, Dickon.

Gilly shook her head decidedly. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you for watching young Sam for me. I am a bit tired though, this whole place has been……..” she trailed off.

“Overwhelming,” Sam finished for her and was rewarded by her smile, sweet as summer.

“Yes,” she agreed. She went over and kiss him gently on the lips.

“Goodnight, Sam the Slayer,” she teased him.

“Goodnight, Gillyflower,” he told her, using the name beloved Maester Aemon called her by.

Sam closed Gilly’s door behind him and then hovered, undecided as he listened to the distant sounds of shouting and laughter from the pub. This was as daunting as walking into the mess hall for his first meal with his brothers had been, all those years ago. 

But Sam had made friends then. Jon Snow became more than a brother, more than a friend to him. And he had had Grenn and Pyp and Edd, and even Maester Aemon after a while. Old Lord Commander Mormont had taken him under his wing too. All but Edd was gone now, and Edd was far away, but his brothers were counting on him, even from beyond the grave. He could not let them down.

He would make more friends here, and he would find the knowledge that Jon had sent him here to seek. Alleras had seemed nice, and Pate had shown him this pub after all, and Gilly would be safe here.

Sam chewed nervously on his tongue as he decided. At last he descended into the main room. Ale and kvas from beyond the sea, and cider were all being chugged in copious amounts. A fiddler was attempting to strike up a jolly tune in one corner, but was being booed by a bunch of rowdy sailors from the Summer Isles, and girls with long, shapely dresses and fierce smiles were moving purposefully between the tables, platters with tankards held expertly over their heads. 

Sam stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking around for Pate and his group of novices. At last he spotted them at one of the center tables. A beautiful, golden-haired girl was refilling their tankards. Leo Tyrell placed his hand proprietorially on her arse, but the girl shrugged him off. As Sam watched the girl’s eyes nervously darted up and across the table, but Sam could not see who sat there for all the people in the room. 

Leo Tyrell grabbed the girl, hauling her into his lap and ignoring her squawk of protest. Pate, seated with his back towards Sam, seemed to make an aborted motion to interfere, but gave up. Sam started towards them.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that. I paid a gold crown for your maidenhead after all,” Tyrell said crassly.

Alleras the Sphinx had risen from the table, his dark face hard, and Sam broke in before a fight could ensue.

“I….I…..don’t…..don’t think you should do that, Tyrell,” Sam said, stuttering and wishing that Ghost was beside him. The direwolf was fierce and he always seemed to have Sam’s back when Sam really needed him. 

As Sam had expected, Leo Tyrell instantly forgot the girl upon seeing the black brother. “Why, if it isn’t Sam the pig?” he cried, delighted. He shoved the golden-haired girl off him, who looked supremely grateful for her escape, and scurried off.

Leo jumped to his feet. He had the Tyrell brown hair, but his eyes were dull and small. Everything about him screamed arrogant, wealthy toff who never had to work at anything in his life, and Sam hated him.

His knees were knocking together but he responded anyway. “Do they still call you Lazy Leo?” he inquired, his voice not at all as impressive as he had half-heartedly hoped it would be. “Your sisters coined that name, didn’t they? Because you never did anything. I can’t imagine that stands you in go stead in……in the Citadel,” he finished, tripping over his words as Tyrell took a menacing step wards him. 

“Little piggy,” the other snarled, “should have known you couldn’t hack it in the Night’s Watch, even among all that lowborn scum. Your father finally give in and send you here.”  
Sam glared. His father had threatened to murder him. Randall Tarly didn’t give two shits what happened at the Wall, only about his damn image and the image of his House. “I earned my place there,” Samwell Tarly snapped, loudly. Alleras and Armen, who had been moving forward to intervene, stopped in surprise. “I earned it there by killing a White Walker one-on-one. Do you know what a White Walker is, Tyrell? Do you know that it is all but impossible to kill one of them? Do you know the army of them that is approaching the Wall even as we speak? Do you know that Winter is coming and the entire Seven Kingdoms is too busy worrying about who sits on the iron throne to do a karking thing about it!” He was the one who took a menacing step forward now and Leo Tyrell, in pure shock, took one backwards.

“I earned my place there, and now I have come here to learn how to save this entire Realm, so you can take your lazy, useless……..arse, and get out of my face!”  
Sam was panting by the time he was done with this, entirely unexpected, speech, and a bubble of silence encircled their table as those nearest to them overheard Sam’s words and halted their exuberance.

“That’s a myth, lad,” a trader from Tyrosh said. The Oldtown merchant next to him was staring at Sam in great dislike. “There’s no such thing.”

“That’s a line the Night’s Watch is using to demand more money from us,” the merchant added, going back to his drink and ignoring Sam. “Why should I send my money to criminals and traitors standing uselessly at some Wall in the north?”

“The Queen in King’s Landing has said that there’s no truth in the rumors,” a baker added. A servant girl, paused next to him, was nodding her head.

“The Maesters would have told us if there was anything to worry about,” the girl said, as if that decided the matter.

Leo Tyrell, face still startled, glared at Sam. “You better watch yourself, Tarly,” he snapped before stalking off. Sam frowned at the departing nobleman’s son and at the people around him. 

“Some people never grow up,” Pate offered, from his spot at the table from which he had ignored the entire exchange. He daintily sipped from his tankard and Sam did not miss how Alleras the Spihinx’s eyes darted over towards Pate in faint surprise.

“Will you join us, Sam?” the handsome young man asked now, gesturing for Sam to take Leo Tyrell’s empty place.

“Tyrell won’t come back, and none of us are going to miss him,” Armen said, contentedly, tipping his chair back at an alarming angle and yelling loudly for one of the serving girls to bring Sam something to drink.

“I heard you being talked about between Archmaester Walgrave and Archmaester Norren,” Pate said, his eyes darting around the room. Sam, his attention fixed determinedly on the new drink that the golden-haired girl brought him, did not miss how Alleras looked up at him with a faint frown, nor how the golden-haired girl brushed past Alleras a little closer than was necessary. 

People often thought that because he was fat, he was stupid and unobservant, but Sam had never met someone who watched people so closely and carefully before he had met Jon. It was one of the things that bonded them together; they both spent so much time inside their own heads. 

“What were they saying about me?” he asked Pate, nervously.

The cold, pale eyes turned back to him and Sam almost jumped. There had been something in those eyes…….

“Nothing much,” Pate returned, and he was just a boy again, a novice like Sam. “They said that you had been asking after suspicious books and scrolls in the library, and Norren muttered something darkly about Maester Aemon in the Night’s Watch.”

“Maester Aemon who was Aemon Targaryen,” Alleras said absently, appearing more interested in his own beverage than in the conversation. 

Armen took a decided drink. “The Citadel doesn’t like the Targaryens.”

Sam was startled at this. “They don’t? This is common knowledge?”

Armen shrugged. “It’s not so much a problem now with the Baratheons on the throne, but yes, it’s common knowledge. The Citadel didn’t approve of the Targaryen’s magic, believed that they were unstable and, in most cases, bad for the realm. Marwyn the mage is always going on about how the Citadel’s prejudice with regards to every other knowledge but the type they deem acceptable turns them into a bunch of ignorant, prejudiced dunces.”

Alleras laughed until he snorted. “I believe I’ve heard that one already.”

Armen grinned. “You’ll hear more, trust me.” And for Sam’s benefit he explained, “Alleras and Tyrell have officially become novices under Marwyn. He’s a respected teacher otherwise I’m sure the Citadel would have thrown him out years ago.”

“Well,” broke in Pate, unexpectedly, “I need to take a piss, lads. Excuse me for a moment.” And he got up and wandered off into the din.

Now both Armen and Alleras frowned after him. “He’s been odd ever since that night Leo paid a gold coin for Rosey,” Armen said, referring to the golden-haired girl.  
Alleras’ face tightened. After a moment he nodded. “Yes, I agree. At first I thought it was about……the girl too. But now I’m not so sure.”

Armen turned to face his friend. “Well, what else could it be?” he asked, surprised.

Alleras’ face was very serious. Sam was desperately interested and equally as desperate not to appear interested. “I have no idea, but I suggest we keep an eye on him. But make sure he does not catch you doing it. There’s something in his eyes I don’t like…..” They both turned and looked at him when Sam nodded frantically at his words.  
“We watch and we wait,” Alleras said. “And Sam, I think I’m going to like you. We are including you in this as well. You appear to have good instincts. Also, and I think Armen would agree with me here, I suggest you go and speak to Marwyn about anything related to White Walkers, the Wall, and the Long Night. He might be able to help you. At any rate, he’s probably the only one around here who won’t laugh at you.”

“And you’re not laughing at me?” Sam asked, surprised and slightly suspicious.

Alleras shrugged. “My mother was from the Summer Isles and I travelled all over growing up. My father wanted me to learn as much about everything as I could. He used to say that we spend so much time living in one place that we never learn to think like anyone else. I’ve seen too many strange things to disbelieve someone as earnest as you simply because it seems impossible. So my advice is to speak to Marwyn. Then you can decide what to do for your friends.”

Armen gave them both a quick tilt of the head and they turned the conversation back to general Citadel gossip, of which Sam did not have much to contribute yet. Pate returned and they spent the next hour or so in genial companionship. When Alleras wandered off and Armen said he had to go meet a girl somewhere, Pate and Sam bade each other farewell and parted ways as well. 

Sam climbed back up the stairs of the pub to quickly check on Gilly and young Sam. As he passed the second floor he heard a noise down one of the corridors that made him stop. This level encompassed the rooms for the serving girls and women who worked the main floor. Sam had heard some of the novices refer to them as cleaner-looking prostitutes.

Sam flattened his rotund frame against one of the walls and then slowly peered around the corner. The wood paneling was dark and there were no tapers down this hallway, but the golden glow from the main room of the pub still filtered dimly down here.

By its light Sam saw the long limbs and dark curls of Alleras the Sphinx. He was pressed against a woman who, when she shifted, had golden hair that glinted softly in the light. Alleras bent his dark head and Rosey lifted up her golden one and they kissed long and hard.

Sam watched them a moment, watched Alleras’ arms come up around the girl and pull her tight against him, watched Rosey’s hands thread through Alleras’ riotous curls, and heard Alleras moan low and rough.

Turning red, he scurried away before anyone would notice him, and decided that he would check on Gilly another time.  
As he lay in his hard bed in the small cell they had given him back at the Citadel, he listened to the night life of Oldtown continue on around him. The light of the half-moon, which his mother once told him was the most magical, shone down on the cell in a thin, pale golden beam. Sam eventually got up and moved towards the trunk where he had shoved the clothes he had arrived in, the black leathers and furs which marked him as a brother of the Night’s Watch. He felt around in one of the deep pockets and pulled out the letter Maester Aemon had dictated to him before he passed.

It was addressed to Aemon’s old friend, Archmaester Marwyn, and was still unopened. Inside, Aemon had told him, was the correspondence Aemon had had with his great nephew, the long-departed Rhaegar Targaryen. 

“I can no longer help her,” Aemon had sadi, sadly, “but Daenerys needs the knowledge I have acquired, the theories that Rhaegar and I discussed all those years ago. Marwyn has to be told, he was always the most open minded of that lot, and he has to come north to help the Lord Commander. This isn’t the time for petty feuds any longer.” He had grip Sam, surprisingly strong for such a frail, old man. “You must be brave, Samwell Tarly. You must be braver than you ever thought you could. You must do this for me, and for your friend, Jon Snow.”

And Sam had agreed.

So when Samwell Tarly, Steward in the Night’s Watch and Maester in training, stood before Archmaester Marwyn, he asked for a private audience and he simply handed Aemon Targaryen’s letter over.

Marwyn read it through without question; his keen old eyes were sharp and shrewd, and there was a cunning, tenacious mind behind it that sweet, Maester Aemon had lacked, but the wisdom in their eyes was what made them similar. They had the ability to look beyond what things appeared to be, to see what they really were underneath.

When he was finished reading he looked up and met Sam’s eyes thoughtfully. “Thank you, Samwell,” he said simply. “It is good to know that my old friend, Aemon, lived and died with such dignity. And I am glad that he chose to trust me with this.” He stood up and paced around his chambers, picking up books and placing them almost at random in a huge travelling trunk that he had lying on his table. “But he was wrong to think that I can go North. Too much is happening here that I fear if the Mother of Dragons ever arrives, she will find more enemies than she knows how to fight. Too much that not even Aemon ever suspected.”

Sam wanted to know what was in the letter that would cause such a reaction. Sam wanted to know what Rhaegar Targaryen and Maester Aemon talked about together before Robert’s Rebellion even happened.

As Marwyn the Mage tucked the letters into his voluminous robes, Sam resigned himself to never knowing. 

Marwyn turned and faced Sam again. “You must go, Samwell Tarly. You must meet with Daenerys Targaryen across the sea, and tell her, convince her, that it is vital for her to return. I will provide you with as much proof as I am able to, but you must make her see that if she does not arrive in the Seven Kingdoms soon, there is no hope for any of us.”

&……&…….&……..&………&………&

Much more is happening in Oldtown than Sam will ever fully realize. And yes, I fully subscribe to the common theory of who Alleras the Sphinx really is. And now Sam is off to Braavos!


	14. Brienne

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! Brienne and Pod, and their adventures in the Riverlands are up now. Then I’m thinking Tyrion, and then either Arya or Jon. Let me know which one you’d rather have first.

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Brienne

 

&……&……&……&

 

Brienne and Pod crouched behind a small grouping of gorse bushes and peered through the brambles, down the steadily sloping land, to the Twins, the ancestral home of House Frey of the crossing. An imposing fortification striding both sides of the Green Fork of the Trident, its ramparts and towers commanded a complete view of the entire surrounding countryside for a distance of slightly more than 10 leagues. 

This far south, no snow had fallen yet, and Brienne was silently grateful that her teeth were no longer chattering. Pod had been going on and on about the blessed lack of snow for days now, and Brienne was valiantly restraining herself from clotting him on the ear with her armored hand. She could not help but wonder how her lady, Sansa, was faring now. Although Brienne had left Lady Stark surrounded by her brother, a direwolf, and at least several loyal men, she knew how quickly fortunes changed, and the Starks were being hunted now across all Seven Realms.

Brienne had sworn to Lady Catelyn that she would protect her daughters, and she had failed Arya Stark. She had been too stupid to realize the girl would have no reason to trust an armored woman with a southern accent and who bore a Lannister sword.

But it did not matter now. What mattered in this moment was that Brienne keep faith with Lady Sansa, and her plans to take back the North for House Stark. From Lady Catelyn’s stories of her, Brienne would never have dreamed that the timid, gentle, naïve girl would grow to be such a determined and stern woman, but there was still a kindness, a goodness, to Sansa Stark and it made Brienne believe that here was someone else she could serve with both loyalty and gladness.

Pod silently nudged her and then pointed out the mid-afternoon patrol. The Twins were lightly guarded, which Brienne would have found suspicious if she had not heard from every house they passed, that old Walder Frey and most of his extended brood were encamped around the walls of Riverrun far to the south. Like a vulture, Walder Frey was waiting for the Lannister host to storm the ancient fortress of the Tullys, drive out the Blackfish and his remaining men, and then claim the ruling seat of the Riverlands for himself. 

Brienne had also heard rumors that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the Queen’s brother, was en route to take command of the siege. She had travelled throughout the war-torn Riverlands with the golden haired Kingsguard, first as an enemy and then as an ally, but Brienne could not say what it was she was feeling now. Jaime Lannister was a traitor, an amoral, incestuous oathbreaker, but he had kept his word to Lady Catelyn, he had saved Brienne’s life several times, and he had gifted her with part of Ned Stark’s sword in order that she might use it to protect his daughters.

Brienne had felt hollow leaving him behind in King’s Landing, and she had worried what would happen to him now that he was back with his family. Brienne was her father’s only child, and she knew that he loved her, but she also understood Lord Tywin Lannister had been a ruthless, uncompromising man, and that he demand absolute loyalty, even over oaths and love, from his children.

Brienne turned her attention back to the Twins. They were aptly named; two identical stone castles, square and plain, with high, straight walls, deep moats and with a barbican and portcullis in each, which faced the riverbanks. 

The Twins, as a whole, was a squat, rather dull fortification. Although imposing, there was no majesty in its creation, no attempt to alleviate its plain, straight, serviceable walls with either ornamentation or ingenuity. Beside its deep moat and the natural protection offered by the Trident itself, the towers of the Twins lacked effective deterrents for those intent on getting in or out. The Lords of the Crossing had probably imagined they wouldn’t need more than the river.

The guard was poorly trained and sparse, there were too many windows too low to the ground, too many entrances at the water level for flat barges and skiffs to unload people and cargo. There were too few embrasures in the walls themselves, for no army could camp beneath the walls, and they had been deemed superfluous. The Lords of the Crossing were not warriors, they were toll men. Brienne found it child’s play to spot multiple places to enter or leave wither tower of the Twins unseen and unnoticed.

As Pod had noticed yesterday, when they counted the Frey guard and timed their patrols, the ones left behind at the Twins were new recruits, the ones not trusted to hold their position in a battle line, and those two old to do much fighting. They were also not expecting much in the way of an attack. The combined Northern army under Robb Stark had been all but eviscerated at the Red Wedding. Those that had escaped had fled to Riverrun under the commander of Ser Brynden Tully, Lady Catelyn’s uncle, or they had become little more than brigands and murderers in the wild.

Those who had been wounded and captured at the Red Wedding itself, Smalljon Umber, Edmure Tully, Lord Patrek Mallister, Ser Marq Piper, Ser Wylis Manderly, Lady Maege Mormont, who’s eldest daughter and heir had been killed at the Feast, a Cerwyn, two Glovers and a Tallhart, had been locked within the bowels of one or both of the castles. Brienne believed most of them had yet to be moved or killed. The Freys and Boltons were holding them for good behavior from their houses, but rumor had it that Ser Kevan Lannister had demanded Edmure Tully as his own personal hostage. Another rumor claimed that the Greatjon, who had been captured by Bolton and Karstark men while fighting in the East, had been moved to the Twins several weeks ago.

Brienne hoped this one was true. The Greatjon was rumored to be a fearsome fighter, and to be absolutely loyal to the Starks.

She narrowed her eyes and watched Pod’s finger as he pointed out another patrol. They were always punctual and always perfunctory. The main fighting in the Riverlands had been all but ended the past several months. Lord Tywin had been ruthless in his suppression of the marauding bands, and the houses still loyal to the Tullys, and most of the fighting had taken place to the south and east and north, leaving the Twins all but untouched.

Brienne waited until the nearest Patrol had passed before turning to Pod. “The sooner we do this, the less chance we take of being found out, by the Freys or by any of the smallfolk around here who are loyal to them.”

Pod nodded. He looked scared but determined. “Lady Sansa will have called the banners by now, right?”

Brienne did not know for sure. “The faster she moves, the less time the Boltons will have to prepare. The faster we move, the more time chaos we create in the Riverlands and hopefully, the more allies we give her.”

Pod swallowed, and crawled after Brienne as the two of them backtracked through the low-lying scrub back to their camp. There would be no fire tonight – the same as the previous several days as they entered Frey territory – and they would take turns sleeping high in the bows of the trees, away from any prowling hounds or errant guardsmen.  
Brienne tore off a piece of the dried mutton they had carried with them from the last inn. She chewed on it thoughtfully before taking out her dirk and beginning to sharpen it. Her valyrian steel sword, Oathkeeper, needed no such attention. 

She thought over the path and timing of the patrols, she contemplated the two castles, the crossbowmen on the battlements, the carts and wagons crossing the bridge at dawn, midday, and dusk, and she thought about what a spiteful, vindictive old man like Walder Frey would do. 

“Lord Tyrion would have split all the captives up. He would have executed the most troublesome as an example to the rest,” Pod offered.

Brienne hummed under her breath. “That’s because Tyrion Lannister was a cunning man,” she returned. Jaime had told her that his dwarf brother took after their father in his ability to maneuver the ever changing political structure of Westeros. “Walder Frey is none of those things, or he would not have let his House take the fall for the Red Wedding. The Riverlands will never truly follow him, and the North is just biding their time.”

Pod pulled out a small square of hard goat’s cheese and offered half to her. “How are we getting in, milady?” he asked her.

Brienne leaned back against her saddlebags and stared up at the late afternoon sun shining through the trees. The foliage had turned from the deep greens of summer to the golds and russets of autumn. A carpet of yellow leaves and acorns made up the forest floor. Sooner rather than later the snows would come here too.

'Winter is Coming.' The Stark words echoed through Brienne’s head. She had seen the Wall, and the fear on the faces of the Night’s Watch. Knights should be gathering to march north to the true war, but all the true Knights were dead, and the men who were left were scrambling after small bits of power, bleeding the realm dry.

“How do you think we’re going to get in, Pod?” Brienne challenged him, and had to suppress a grin at the small grimace which crossed the boy’s face. 

Pod pondered this for a moment. “Well,” he said at last. “We can’t go in as one of the smallfolk, because we don’t have anything to sell or transport, and someone would give us away. Plus, our accents mark us as nobility. We have no way of scaling the walls, our armor is too heavy to swim the moat, and we can’t go in as ourselves.”

“Aptly summarized, Pod,” Brienne said drily. “Do you have anything of use to contribute?” Even a month ago Pod would have taken her brusque words to heart and sunk into despondency that he had failed her. Now he gave her a slightly exasperated look, but applied himself to the task at hand.

“We’re going to have to go in as ourselves………but not ourselves,” he concluded.

Brienne sighed. 

The next morning Brienne, in her black armor with the visor drawn down, stood before the castellan of the Twins. Lord Ambrose Butterwell sat in his lord’s chair, a huge monstrosity carved of black oat, and squinted suspiciously down at the strange armor-clad warrior. Pod stepped forward nervously.

“My lord,” he began, his voice wavering. Brienne wished he would acquire a bit more courage from somewhere, but he was all she had so he would have to do. “May I present to you Ser Duncan of the Stoney Step.”

“Never heard of him,” Lord Ambrose snapped peevishly.

Pod looked even more hesitant. “He was knight by King Joffrey Baratheon after the Battle of the Blackwater, my lord,” he explained, upon which the old castellan snorted.

“One of those knights,” he muttered darkly. Brienne and Pod had been counting on this reaction. After the Battle of the Blackwater, when Stannis Baratheon had attempted to conquer King’s Landing, King Joffrey had knighted ever man who had claimed to commit any act of valor. Knights were created from every baseborn fighter and thief, oathbreaking younger son, or foreigner who had played a part, or claimed to play a part, in the affair.

There was no way to trace whether any of these stories, or any of these knights, were who they said they were. Brienne had a suit of armor and a well-made sword and a horse; that made her a knight if she claimed to be one.

Brienne remained silent.

“Why doesn’t he remove his helmet, or lift his visor, and offer his services himself?” Lord Ambrose asked suspiciously.

Brienne hadn’t liked this part, but Pod had convinced her that as she wouldn’t be saying a word, she would not actually be offering her honor and her sword to the service of House Frey. Brienne had no desire to be foresworn. 

“Ser Duncan has taken a vow of silence, my lord,” Pod explained hurriedly. “He was bound in silence by the High Sparrow himself, until a year and a day had passed.”

This story seemed to pique the castellan’s interest. Several other lords and ladies in the hall also seemed to look reluctantly intrigued. News of the High Sparrow’s ascent in power at King’s Landing had spread through the southern lands of the realm like wildfire. Even people in the Riverlands had heard about it. The bards were singing tales of the Queen’s walk of shame, and the ruin of House Tyrell, whenever they were out of earshot of men loyal to the Lannisters. At one of the inns they had been in on their way south, a very upstanding place called The Stinking Goose, Pod and Brienne had listened with fascination to a bard singing of the fat lord of White Harbor, far to the north, and how he had offered his Frey guests pies made from their own kinsmen. The story had been hushed quickly, but a murmuring had gone through the common room and Brienne had been sure that the story would spread throughout the town like wildfire.

“Is it true?” Pod had asked her later, but Brienne had not known. Lady Catelyn had spoken of Lord Wyman Manderly with great respect and warmth, and Brienne had met his second son, a fat man named Wendel, but she did not know if the Manderlys were still loyal to their Stark overlords, or had switched to Roose Boltons banner.

“I don’t think it matters if it is true or not,” she’d told him. “I think it only matters because people believe it could be true.” The Freys had betrayed their sworn lord, had slaughtered men and women in their Halls who were under guest right. The Riverlands seethed with uneasiness, and there were probably very few people who would say they trusted their new overlords.

“Why would he be bound in silence?” Lord Ambrose asked now.

Pod held a paper in his hands, signed by Brienne in a scrawl that could conceivably be the name ‘Ser Duncan’ if you squinted hard enough, but could also be any other name that she chose. He walked slowly up the dais to Lord Ambrose and hand the parchment to him.

The old man squinted even more. “’I, Ser Duncan of the Stoney Step, seek to serve the Gods and the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms. For a year and a day, I shall remain silent and serve, until I know their will.’”

Lord Ambrose handed the parchment back. He chewed on his lip, snorted, took a sip of ale, and at last said, “Why House Frey?”

This part would be the easiest, Brienne had thought; it was fairly self-explanatory. Indeed, Pod seemed to grow in courage as he wasn’t threatened with imminent death from Lord Ambrose Butterwell. 

“Ser Duncan was born in the Riverlands, my lord. He has watched his land be torn apart in pointless wars against the Crown. He wishes to aid his liege lord in rebuilding and re-strengthening his homeland. He only asks for a position where he can serve.”

When Lord Ambrose said, “Well, let’s see how he fights, first,” Brienne knew that she was in.

The next few days were the hardest. Brienne could not speak, she could not bathe where anyone could see her, and she could not remove her helmet. Occasionally she kept her visor up, so that the men and women in the Twins could see her eyes, two pools of blue, beneath the black armor. Pod explained away her refusal to remove her armor as an idiosyncrasy due to the violence she had seen, and the battles she had been in, and this was mostly accepted.

Brienne fought better than almost all the men there, she was strong and tireless and uncomplaining. The men at the Twins tolerated her presence even if they looked at her cross-eyed occasionally. Pod himself was more easily accepted. As her squire he was seen everywhere in both castles of the Twins, fetching water and food, having her weapons and armor cleaned and sharpened, delivering requests and messages, and his presence wasn’t even remarked upon.

It was Pod who found where the northern lords were being held first. 

“The western castle,” he told her quietly, as he bent over her at the mess table to place a flagon of wine before her. Brienne pulled her visor up. She had heard several men commenting on her lack of facial hair, but she didn’t think her chin was particularly feminine looking, so she didn’t worry about it too much.  
She gave him a look over her shoulder.

“The guard with the keys is on duty just down the hallway in the guardroom. Two other men are stationed with him at all times.” He left her side and Brienne ate her supper of dark bread and fish stew quickly. She didn’t want to wait. Every day they delayed was one more day she could be discovered. Also, her scalp was itching from being stuck inside her helm for so long.

That night Brienne stood her watch as usual. When her turn came to be relieved, she calmly slit the throat of the guardsman sent to take her place, dumped his body into the Trident, and met Pod at the barbican to the western castle. Together they walked down to the dungeons.

The keeper of the keys looked up from his game of dice. When he saw her he frowned. “Who are you?” he demanded, just before Brienne ran him through with her sword. Pod brained the other one with a heavy wooden flagon sitting on the table, and Brienne drove her dirk through the eye of the third.

Pod grabbed the keys, they slipped down the hall, and they opened the door to the cell where the northern lords were kept.

Walder Frey had decided to keep all of his enemies in and thirty by forty foot cell. At first, this might seem spacious, but a dozen noblemen and women, most of them wounded, and all locked away together for months and months on ends, well it was a minor miracle of the gods that none of them had killed the rest, or gone crazy.

They blinked at Brienne and Pod in the torchlight. The biggest of them, a huge older man with a magnificent white beard, got slowly to his feet. He was chained to the wall and his face was covered in fading bruises, a motley of yellow and green and deep purple. “The scum you call lord finally found his balls and is going to execute us?” he asked belligerently.

Brienne pulled off her helm.

“Another bloody woman,” she heard one of the northern lords swear.

“Mind your tongue,” snapped the voice of what must be old Lady Mormont.

“I’m Brienne of Tarth, and this is Podrik Payne,” Brienne explained quickly. She handed the torch to Pod and moved into the cell, sorting through the keys to find the correct one for the old man’s chains. “This is a rescue, but we have to move quickly. Pod and I have a boat line up, so it will be harder for them to pursue us, but the quicker we move, the easier this will be.”

Old Lady Mormont grabbed her arm to halt her when Brienne went to unchain her. “Who is rescuing us, lass?” she asked. “Our king is dead. House Stark has been destroyed. From what we hear the Boltons rule the North now.”

Brienne smiled grimly. “Not for long,” she promised them all. “I am sworn to Sansa Stark. She has called the banners, and the North will answer.”

“Ned’s eldest daughter?” Lady Mormont asked, sounding more speculative than questioning.

“That girl was married to a Lannister,” the old man with the white beard growled. Brienne had a feeling that this was the Greatjon.

“She is currently married to Ramsay Bolton,” Pod piped up from the doorway.

“Bolton?” questioned another.

“She’s a woman,” groaned another, “not a leader.”

“She’s a wee slip of a girl,” cried yet a third. 

“She is the Heir to the North,” Brienne’s voice cut through them like a whip. She had been dealing with men speaking of her in that same tone her entire life. She would not let them speak that way to her lady. “She is the Queen in the North. She has been through hell to return home, and she has sent me to free you all.”

There was a brief moment of quiet as the lords and lady stumbled to their feet and began to slowly follow Brienne and Pod out into the flickering torchlight of the dungeon hallway.

“But she has no experience commanding men in battle,” Lady Mormont hissed down the stone passageway. “Who will lead her army?”

“Assuming we can even muster one,” someone else chimed in.

“I’ll do it,” the Greatjon volunteered instantly.

“What makes you think she’ll choose you?” another lord asked, annoyed.

“Why wouldn’t she?” the Greatjon was honestly surprised. “My loyalty is beyond question.”

“No one was talking about your loyalty,” someone else muttered.

As the Greatjon bristled indignantly, Pod started silently laughing at the look that was apparently growing like thunder across Brienne’s face.

Brienne hissed back to the quarreling northern lords. “Her commander will be her brother, Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

That halted their bickering effectively until they were well away from the Twins. As the distant lights grew dimmer behind them, shouting came to them over the water, as well as the sound of a bell tolling. Soon the banks on either side of the Trident, both north and south, would be flooded with Frey soldiers and supporters, hoping to catch the errant northern lords for whatever bounty Lord Ambrose Butterwell would set. 

There was silence in the two boats Brienne and Pod had procured. There was just the wind, the lapping of the waves against the wood hulls, and the sound of the oars dipping in and out, in and out. And the sound of the shouting in the distance.

One of northerners was digging around in the boats, looking through the provisions Pod had spent the past week pilfering. He tossed pieces of black bread to the others. Then he turned to Brienne. Conversationally he said, “The odds are not in our favor of getting out of the Riverlands alive, let alone to wherever Lady Stark is.”

Brienne, who was manning one of the oars, gave a grunt. “We just have to get to Greywater Watch. Lord Snow and Lady Stark said that Lord Reed would be an ally.”

“Those bogmen?” someone else sneered.

Lady Mormont frowned. “The swamps of the crannogmen are all but impassable to outsiders. There’s no way we’ll make it there if we can’t use the King’s Road.”

“We have to try,” Brienne told her, and everyone seemed to accept that statement as final. Although the Riverlands had been brought into some semblance of order with the end of the War of the Five Kings, it was still a place with roaming companies of mercenaries and cutthroats. The sooner Brienne and her charges were north of Moat Cailin, the safer she would feel. 

However, they were only one day out from the Twins when they were captured. Snuck up upon during the night, the lone sentry of their party had been taken while nipping behind a tree to take a quick leak. By the time Brienne knew what was going on, she was being forcibly manhandled towards a horse, blindfolded and with her hands held tight behind her back until they could secure ropes around them.

Then they tied her to a horse and they traveled for what felt like hours. Brienne tried to keep track of their direction, but it was hopeless as the old nag she was strapped to went up and down numerous hills, through gorges and streams, and underneath the dripping trees of countless woods and forests.

As the day moved inexorably towards evening, the finally arrived at their destination. The blindfold was ripped from her eyes as she was hauled down from the horse, and Brienne blinked in the dim, rainy grey light which was still too bright after the darkness of the blindfold. Brienne, Pod and the northern lords found themselves in a forest clearing, with the high branches above them festooned with yellow leaves, which gently rained down upon them. The carpet of red, yellow, and brown leaves beneath their feet muffled the tread of their boots and the clomp of the horses’ hooves. Rain dripped steadily off the branches with a faintly melancholy sound.

There was a hush amidst the clearing. Brienne almost wanted to call it reverence, but looking at the faces of the men who surrounded them, their worn, grim visages, their dead or cruel-looking eyes, Brienne knew it was something darker. These men had seen too much of war, too much of death; there was too little of them left.

They came around a bend in the clearing and saw several men waiting for them. Grim faced though they were, they looked almost impassive as they gazed at their newest captives, but it was not the men who gave Brienne pause. At their center stood a single woman, veiled and utterly still, who watched them with black, shadowed eyes as they approached. Brienne and her companions were spread out in a line before the woman, and forced roughly to their knees in the mud and leaves.

No one spoke, not even to jeer, and that made Brienne most nervous of all. The silent woman, dressed head to toe in mourning colors of black, grey and dark purple, glided slowly forward until she stood directly before and above Brienne. The men watched her with expectation and Brienne tried to peer through the veil to no avail. At last, the Greatjon appeared to grow impatient.

“Speak lass, and tell us what you want. Or cut our heads off and have done with it.” The silence changed imperceptibly but Brienne could not say how.

The woman lifted up her veil and Brienne’s eyes grew wide, her breath catching in horror. One of the northern lords swore, and Pod let out a quickly-strangled gasp. Underneath the veil was the pale, dead, rotted face of Lady Catelyn Stark.

“Lady Catelyn,” rumbled the Greatjon, his voice filled with shock and pity, and faint disgust.

The woman who had been Catelyn Stark snapped her head over in his direction. There was nothing human or alive about that head turn, or about the eyes which stared at her dead son’s loyal bannerman. Lady Catelyn’s eyes were filled with madness and rage and the impersonal nature of the dead. A knife appeared from beneath her long sleeves as she glided toward Lord Umber, as five of her men descended upon the huge bear of a northerner, seeking to hold him down for her pleasure. His son attempted to throw himself in the way of the knife, shouting.

“No,” Brienne cried. “No!”

The dead Lady Catelyn did no heed her, but used all her strength to drive her blade deep into the Greatjon’s left eye. He dropped like a stone to her feet, blood pooling and spreading rapidly around him.

There was an uproar from the northern lords which was silenced by the man who had stood next to Lady Catelyn saying calmly, dispassionately, “Lady Stoneheart does not go by that name anymore.” He cleared his throat pompously as the sudden silence enabled his words to be heard clearly.

“She wishes you to know that you are all traitors, in league with the Freys and the Lannisters, and therefore you will die like the cowardly turncoats that you are.” The man grinned now, his crack, toothless, black smile a rictus of malicious joy.

“My lady,” Brienne called out, “my lady, we are not traitors! I come from your daughter, from Sansa Stark. She has raised the northern banners and is calling the lords of ever house to renew their vows of loyalty to House Stark. I serve her and have sworn to protect her, just as I promised you.”

Lady Stoneheart’s dead face turned slowly toward Brienne. Her throat had been slashed to the bone and the scar was still vividly visible. She didn’t speak, but appeared to be listening. Brienne tried again.

“And I saw your daughter, Arya. She was alive as well. She did not want my help, but she still carried the sword her brother made for her. She was still fighting.”

Lady Stoneheart paused for a long moment and Brienne held her breath, waiting. Lady Mormont shifted her old knees a bit, but the others waited silently as well. Then Brienne saw Lady Stoneheart’s eyes fall on the valyrian steel sword Jaime Lannister had given her. It was made from one-half of the ancient blade, Ice, which had been wielded by Lord Eddard Stark before his murder.

Lady Stoneheart stared at the distinctive sheen of the blade and Brienne knew she saw the Lannister golden lions on its hilt. She made a motion with her hand and another man stepped forward, reading from a sheaf of parchment.

“As restitution for the crimes committed against her family, and for failing to protect her son and brother, Lady Stoneheart sentences you all to death.” He raised his hand imperiously, looking like he had been trained at the Citadel to be a Maester, and waited for the uproar to subside. The men holding the northern lords beat and kicked them viciously until they quieted. Lady Mormont had a vice-like grip on the Smalljon’s arm, likely to prevent him from immediately avenging his father’s murder.

“Brienne of Tarth,” the man turned to her. He was greasy and stained with mud and blood, his voice was as oily as the rest of him, and as curiously dead-sounding as the eyes of his companions. “Your oath to me has still to be fulfilled. You swore to honor and obey. Therefore, I charge you to keep your word, and to bring me the head of the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, who even now marches on Riverrun, the home of my childhood.”

Although the words came from the man, Brienne heard Lady Catelyn’s voice, and shivered as the dead woman’s eyes fixed on her, madness shining from their depths.

“And you swore to not ask anything of me that would compromise my honor,” Brienne cried, stung. “He kept his word to you, and so have I, now keep yours.”

“The dead keep no promises with the living,” came the answer, impassively. “In death there is only vengeance and darkness. He pushed my son, Bran, from a window and took away his legs. Now bring me his head.”

Brienne looked full in the face of the woman who had once been Lady Catelyn Stark, the woman who had saved her life when Renly’s Rainbow Guard would have struck her down where she stood. A breeze, cold and damp, blew sharply through the clearing as Brienne thought of Sansa Stark’s beautiful, assessing face, and Jaime Lannister’s mocking, dancing eyes. 

‘No matter what you do, you’re betraying one oath or another,’ he had said, and she had not believed him.

“What is dead should remain dead!” yelled one of the Flints now.

“Please,” Brienne begged the unfeeling Lady Stoneheart. “Please don’t make me do this.”

There was a sudden shout from the back of the clearing. “My lady,” a man yelled,” the Freys are come upon us!”

In the ensuing chaos, no one paid any attention as Brienne cut her bonds on Oathkeeper’s sharp blade. She could never go back now. Gripping her sword tightly, steeling herself, she cut through the men before her like a scythe through wheat. Then she took a deep breath, raised Ned Stark’s blade, and swung.

 

&……&…….&…….&……..&…….&

 

Jon or Tyrion is next. I have not decided. I suppose it all depends on how I feel when I sit down to write tomorrow. Let me know which one you’d be more interested to read at the moment. Also, so happy Jon Snow is back in Game of Thrones! Now all we need next episode is a Jon/Sansa hug!


	15. Jon III

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! As per almost universal opinion, Jon is next. Also, that hug between Jon and Edd in the last episode made my life. So it is incorporated in this chapter, just because. The Starks need more hugs in general.

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Jon

 

&……&……&……&

 

Jon stared, from the back of his horse, up at the imposing wooden structure which made up the Last Hearth, the ancient home of House Umber. Built on a hill, with snow-capped mountains rising behind it, the Last Hearth was a low-lying building with peaked roofs jutting off in several directions along its top, giving it the appearance of wings. Hundreds of stone steps had been carved into the rocky hill leading to its doors. All along the hill, going up its sides and at its base, sprawled the village of Umber smallfolk, and the other buildings required by the Umbers; stables, an armory, training yards, a small grazing paddock, and massive kitchens.

There were no stone walls around the Last Hearth, instead its position commanded a view of the entire countryside for miles. The Umbers didn’t hide from their enemies; as soon as they saw them, they rode out to meet them. Jon knew they had seen their approach at least an hour ago. No one was waiting to greet them and no banners had been raised in their honor, but on the positive side no one had been sent to bar their way. 

Jon did not know if this boded ill or well for them, but he knew this was a test, of both him and his sister. The northerners had marched off to war with Robb, because they had loved Ned Stark, and Robb had led them to ruin and defeat. The men of House Umber would be judging very carefully whether they could no follow Ned Stark’s daughter and his bastard son.

Sansa rode up next to him and Jon found himself unable to look at her. He was acutely aware of her presence, the rise and fall of her breath, the flicker of her eyelashes as she looked up at the Last Hearth, the steady movement of her long, graceful hands as she gripped the reins of her mount.

“We should not let them see us hesitate for too long,” he said, knowing his voice was cold, distant, and overly formal.

Sansa looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Her beautiful face was impassive. A light dusting of snow, which had been falling steadily for several days now, frosted her intricately braided auburn hair. She nodded to him, kicked her horse into a brisk trot, and moved out. Jon could feel Edd’s eyes on him from his other side.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he asked, his glum voice implying that they were all doomed to unpleasant deaths before supper time. 

“Only one way to find out,” Jon replied grimly, and followed his sister.

Sansa reached the stairs first. She dismounted gracefully, as she did everything gracefully. Arya had once told him that Sansa was always the lady, and she was always underfoot. ‘Arya Underfoot’ the servants at Winterfell had called her, but Jon had never heard any malice or annoyance in it; they had loved that Arya was around and causing chaos.

Jon missed her fiercely. All at once though he was struck by the realization that if she was here, she would think him the worst kind of brother, the kind who took advantage in unspeakable ways, the kind who cross a line which should never be crossed; she would think him no brother at all.

'You are not a Targaryen,' he told himself, 'to remake reality as you see fit.'

A stableman appeared from out of one of the buildings. He looked at the red-haired woman, who gazed coolly back at him.

“Lady Stark,” he murmured, taking the horses from her.

Sansa nodded back. She turned, looking for Jon before she went up the stairs. He handed the reins of his horse to another stableman and moved up to her side. He wanted to offer her his arm but he did not; he could not. Their eyes met. Jon remembered Sansa’s hands around him, her lips on his. He closed his eyes and turned quickly away.

“Shall we, Jon?” Sansa asked him, her voice as formal as his had been earlier. “The North remembers,” she murmured, looking up at the House. The great wood doors creaked open and big, bearded men, with several women among them, came outside, staring down at them from their high perch. Sansa picked up her skirts, purple and grey, winter colors, and started up the stairs. Jon kept even pace beside her, one hand on the pommel of Longclaw. The Red Woman, Melisandre, Edd, Edric Dayne, Satin, and half a dozen more Black Brothers followed them.

The only sound was their panting breaths, the creak of their leather, and the softly falling snow.

“Welcome to the Last Hearth,” boomed one of the Umbers, uncles or brothers or something to the Greatjon. “Lady Stark.” He looked at Jon and his nod was slightly less respectful. “Lord Snow. I am Mors Umber, joint castellan with my brother Hothar, until my nephew’s return.”

Tormund Giantsbane had brought up the rear. Upon seeing the huge, fierce, red-headed wildling chieftain, Mors Umber’s face grew thunderous.

“That man is not allowed here.” He pointed at Tormund. Several of his men at arms took a step forward to remove Tormund by force. Jon’s men put hands on their sword hilts. Jon opened his mouth to intervene before things got out of hand, but Sansa beat him to it.

“My lord Umber,” she spoke in dulcet tones, leaving Jon’s side and taking several steps to lay her white hand on Mors Umber’s leather-clad arm. Jon felt the loss of her presence with a sharp pang. He set his face sternly and told himself not to be a fool.

“My lord,” Sansa said directing Mors’ attention to her. “We thank you for your hospitality, but this man is my ally, the friend of my brother. Tormund Giantsbane has saved Lord Snow’s life numerous times, they have climbed the Wall together, they have fought what lies beyond together, and now he, along with all the men of the Night’s Watch, bring us all grave tidings that we must heed before it is too late. Winter is coming, my lord. The snows have begun to fall. I ask that you heed his words, just as you have graciously made time to hear mine.”

Sansa’s words were calming, reasonable, and her tone sweet, but with a subtle air of command, as though she could see no reason why anyone would not obey her practical suggestions. She had Mors agreeing before his brain caught up with him. And by that time Sansa had linked her arm with his and was allowing him to escort her into the Great Hall.

Tormund moved up to Jon’s side. “Your sister is quite persuasive when she wants to be.” He sounded bemused, having undoubtedly expected a fight to ensue as it would have among the Wildling clans.”

Jon frowned but said nothing. The girl he remembered had been straightforward, unable to talk their father into hiring a permanent minstrel from Oldtown like the southern courts did. He wondered how often Sansa had been in situations where her slightest chosen word could mean the difference between life and death. In the past several years, at the deadly, decadent court at King’s Landing, in the Eyrie, and with the Boltons, Sansa had learned to judge the effect of her words on the men around her very accurately indeed.

Jon followed her into the Great Hall. His scant half-dozen men trailing behind. ‘Don’t show any hesitation,’ he told himself. ‘This is all a show.’

“Power is image,” Melisandre had told him after he had been elected Lord Commander. Before he had………died. “It is shadows and smoke. You must get men to believe in you before they will follow you.”

“How?” Jon had asked her. He had seen Melisandre’s power, the fear she inspired with her magic and her burning of heretics. He had seen Stannis’ power in his blunt words, his uncompromising will, his name and the legacy of his brother. But Jon had none of these things. He was a Stark by blood but not in name, and his reputation was still so new, mostly untested.

“They think you’re a God,” Tormund had whispered to him after he had come back from the dead.

“Each man and woman must find their own. The Lord of Light gives each of us strength to use,” Melisandre had answered. 

Jon supposed that given the fact he had been murdered by the very men he was supposed to command, told him he had failed in wielding power when it had been offered, as he had failed at everything; he had failed to keep his vows, failed to keep faith with Ygritte, failed to stand with Robb, failed to save the Wildlings at Hardhome, failed to help Stannis re-take the North, failed to find Bran north of the Wall, failed to keep the Night’s Watch together………there were so many things he had failed at.

Jon insisted that the Umbers put him and Sansa in a single room. He ignored the sideways glances such impropriety received, for he did not feel it politically wise to spell out to the other lords that he did not trust them to keep his sister safe. Robb had been murdered surrounded by men who had sworn loyalty to him, who had eaten at his table, and who had followed him into battle. He had been betrayed all the same. And the few Starks left could not command the power and respect that Robb and their father had had.

“Yet,” Sansa said, when he explained his reasoning to her. “But thank you…..brother. Ghost will be good protection for us both, but make sure you are surrounded by men you trust as well.” She was not looking at him, keeping herself busy laying out the dress for the dinner later that the Umber maidservants had said should fit her. The Liddles, the Wulls, the Norreys, and the Knotts had already arrived, along with some representatives from the Cerwyns, whose last lord had died with Robb in the Riverlands. The Manderlys were reported to be on their way, and the rest of the Mountain clans would appear in the next day or so. But tonight would be just a few lords, a few people to impress. 

Sansa’s dress was blue, a shade deeper than her eyes. She touched it distractedly. “I need a white or silver one,” she murmured, still not looking up.

“Sansa – ” Jon said. His voice sounded strangled and unhappy. 

Her eyes, big and blue and vulnerable, snapped up to meet his and Jon had no idea what he should say. Her hands fell gently to her sides, fluttering like birds, pale and lovely. Jon watched them, distracted. 

“Yes, Jon?” she asked, her voice clear and studiously calm; her dealing with people voice, her lady’s voice.

Jon’s voice was cold and perfectly polite when he answered. “I will see you later, my lady.” He left, making sure Ghost knew to stay with Sansa.

He found Edd, Tormund, and the others down the hill in the training yards. Edd, standing stolidly next to Tormund, was located at the center of a growing number of Umber boys, men-at-arms, and even several women. Jon heard the words “…and then Lord Snow cut right through the White Walker, which should be impossible.” There was a murmuring in the crowd and several people turned to watch Jon approach. “And then,” Edd continued, his voice glum and implacable, “thousands of wights threw themselves off the cliff and came straight for us. So we ran like the dickens. Even the giant.” There was some laughter at this statement, and mild disappointment that Wun Wun hadn’t come with them so they could see a giant for themselves, but most people looked a little uneasy, a little scared, and several looked up at the bleak northern sky, at the constantly falling snow, and thought. 

Jon understood the desire to not believe in ancient stories and childhood horrors, but it was about time that the northerners started focusing on the real threat. The Watch should not have to stand alone. He pushed through the gathered fighting men until he’d reached Edd’s side. “Winter is coming, and we have seen the dead walk. Make no mistake that they are coming for us, and if the Wall cannot hold them…” he trailed off, watching their faces.

At last he continued. “We beat them eight thousand years ago. When the Long Night came the First Men drove them back, and together, now, we can do it again. Now, let’s see what you can do.”

As the snows fell and the afternoon lengthened, Jon and the men of the Night’s Watch inspected the fighting skills of the men and boys of House Umber and the surrounding villages and hamlets. Tormund even cajoled several of the serving women and maids into trying their hand at the bow or sword. “Wights won’t care if you can’t fight, they’ll kill you all the same.”

At first the women seemed afraid of the huge, loud, boisterous Wildling chieftain, but they soon swarmed around him like bees to honey and Jon shook his head at Tormund’s self-satisfied grin.

“Is that old Mormont’s valyrian steel sword,” Mors Umbar boomed, startling Jon completely. He stilled and then slowly turned to face one of the acting heads of House Umber. Apparently their training session had drawn the attention of the lords up at the Last Hearth. Jon was being inspected critically. ‘Ned Stark’s last surviving son,’ he heard them whisper. 

Sansa was among them, her auburn hair bright amid the gloom of the day. One hand rested gently on Ghost’s head beside her. The direwolf looked at Jon steadily, his eyes the red of blood, not the setting-sun of Sansa’s hair. She smiled at him, serene and confident.

“It is,” Jon said calmly, stepping forward and offering the blade, hilt-first, to Mors Umber. The huge, old northern lord inspected it as critically as he had Jon. “Let’s see what you can do with this, Lord Snow.”

For a split second Jon hesitated. Then he smoothly turned to Sansa. If she was to be the head of their House, the ruler of the North – at least until Bran returned – then her word was needed.

She met his eyes and nodded, and Jon knew the northern lords watched them carefully, their faces still and stern, but their eyes hopeful.

Jon stepped back, holding his blade loosely in his hand. He threw off his cloak, handed his sheath to Edd, and waved at the crowd to step back. The men and women around them formed a circle. Mors Umber was big and experienced, but he limped on his left leg from an old injury, his eyesight was failing, and he swung his huge sword like a meat cleaver. Jon’s smile was quick and sharp, like the bite of winter. He might fail at everything else he set his mind to, but this he knew how to do.

Ghost howled.

They danced.

Jon was given the place to Sansa’s left that night at supper. Mors Umber, taking his defeat in hearty laughter, yelled at Jon across the high table and offered him the first cuts of meat. The Umbers had laid a rich fair – smoked eel and wild boar, back potatoes wrapped in ham and rosemary, beef and carrot stew, fresh bread, steamed beans with almonds, roasted kale, and apple crumbles for desert.

The Manderlys arrived in time for the food and Mors Umber turned red refraining from comment. He left his brother, Hothar, to entertain the hugely fat lord of White Harbor himself, Wyman Manderly, and his granddaughter and heir, Wylla.

Jon was surprised to see that Wylla’s betrothed, Olyvar Frey, was with the Manderly party. Sansa spoke gently to Wylla, her clear voice barely audible over the din. Jon drank a tankard of ale quickly and called for another. Mors Umber was telling a story of a campaign he had gone on once with Lord Rickard Stark, Jon’s grandfather. One of the Wulls was trying to speak to Jon about Bolton movements along his southern border.

Jon called for another ale.

Sansa’s thigh was pressed against his leg underneath the table. She did not seem to be aware of it as she spoke to several of the Flints who had arrived, and questioned Lord Wyman on the whereabouts of Ser Davos. Jon was certainly aware of it though. She was too close; he could smell the scent of her hair even over the scent of dog and man and roasted meat which filled the Hall. He tried to shift his leg away from her, and heard her voice falter just the slightest bit as she consoled one of the Glover’s or maybe even a Ryswell for the loss of their brother during the War of the Five Kings.

Jon hurriedly put his leg back. He saw Sansa take a deep, fortifying breath. She didn’t look over at him, but her hands unclenched again.

He called for another ale.

He was feeling quite light-headed and was well on his way towards getting drunk by the time the northerners’ bellies were filled, and the minstrel had wandered off to claim his own supper. Jon blinked and tried to focus on his sister, as Sansa stood up before the assembled lords. The noise continued.

Ghost howled loudly and Hothar Umber banged his fist loudly on the high table. “Quiet, you mangy curs!” he shouted, and the sound died away.

“Thank you, Lord Umber,” Sansa said, pitching her voice so that she could be heard clearly at every table. Sansa’s hands were placed hard onto the table, the only sign of her unease. Jon’s hands rested on the table next to hers. He wanted to reach out and touch her, reassure her. He pulled his hands back and shifted slightly away from her, watching the flickering candles in the sconces high above, as they played across her face. Sansa’s eyes were calm, her hair was braided in the northern style, and she looked every inch a Stark in that moment.  
Ghost had laid down before the high table, his white fur shinig, and Jon saw many of the lords and ladies look to the huge direwolf, and then at Jon and Sansa, Ned Stark’s children, seated before them.

Sansa spread her hands on the table and spoke. “My lords and ladies, bannermen of House Stark, sworn swords to my father, Lord Eddard, my brother and I welcome you to the Last Hearth. The hospitality of our hosts, the loyalty of House Umber, is magnanimous and has never been questioned by our House.” She listed the houses in turn and thanked them as well. Her words were direct, to the point, both flattering and implying that such loyalty was both due and expected. It was a tricky path to walk, but Sansa navigated it gracefully, as she did so much else.

“But although we feast as friends; that is not why we are here.” 

Jon watched the faces around him, saw their nods, their serious faces, and wondered which of them would betray him, would betray Sansa. He wondered which of them was even now in the pay of Roose Bolton, or Cersei Lannister, or the Queen Across the Water, Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons.

“Roose Bolton sits in the high seat at Winterfell, my home, my brother’s home, the home of our family for thousands of years. What would my father say if he could be here now? What would my brother, Robb, your king, say? They gave their lives to protect this land, to protect our people and the Realm. And what was their reward?” Sansa’s words were sharp, harsh as a whip. “Bran and Rickon, our brothers, were slain. Our sister, Arya, was lost trying to return home. Our home was taken, our friends and people tortured and slain, and the North is now in the hands of a ruthless betrayer. Roose Bolton broke every bond of loyalty, every oath that he swore, when he drove a dagger into my brother’s heart. He betrayed every single one of you when he conspired with Walder Frey and the Lannisters to kill your kin, your family, in the Riverlands. He has taken our land, our way of life, and is destroying it.”

Sansa leaned forward, looking at each of the lords and ladies in turn. She spoke slowly. “Do you trust Roose Bolton to come to your aid when Winter is upon you? Do you trust Lord Bolton to keep the peace between the houses? Do you trust the lord of the Dreadfort to not betray you if it is in his own interests? Or to betray any lord in the north to the Lannisters in King’s Landing if he thought it prudent?”  
She was fierce in her conviction, the trembling in her voice gone as she attempted to persuade them. There was a lull and Jon knew that now he should add his voice to hers.

“Winter is coming, you all know this. What lies beyond the Wall will soon be upon us. The Night’s Watch can’t stop it alone. When the Long Night comes, do you believe Roose Bolton will lead you through it?”

He hoped his words weren’t slurring because the room was spinning. Jon could feel Melisandre watching him from her place further down the high table; she had been watching him for days and he was still avoiding her. 

Sansa shifted slightly closer to him and resumed speaking. “My brother is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He has held the Wall against the King who ruled beyond and his army of wildlings, he has made allies of these very same wildlings, and he has killed Ramsay Bolton when he dared to break our traditions and attack Castle Black. And I am my father’s heir, the heir to House Stark.”

She took one more breath and made the plunge.

“Who will you follow; House Stark, or the man who betrayed each and every one of you, murdered your family and your people, and lost us the war?”  
Sansa sat back down, slowly, deliberately, refusing to look away from any of them and demanding an answer. 

There was a silence, the longest silence Jon had ever known, as the lords and ladies looked from Jon to Sansa to Ghost to Tormund Giantsbane, and to the men and women seated around them. Predictably it was an Umber who broke the silence.

“Blood demands blood,” boomed Hothar Umber. “I’ll follow no man who betrayed his own countrymen.”

“The Boltons have never ruled the North, and I’ll be damned if they will now,” shouted a member of House Hornwood, whose lands bordered the Boltons.

The Wull, leader of his clan, boomed out, “Ramsay Bolton broke our laws when he attacked Castle Black with his father’s men. Our allegiance is to House Stark where it has always been.”

“Ned Stark’s children!” shouted a Liddle.

It was Wylla Manderly, her green hair clashing with Sansa’s red, who raised her goblet and shouted, “The Queen in the North!” Jon saw that her eyes were bright and sparkling, filled with mischief but also with a fierceness that he’d often seen in Arya’s.

“The Queen in the North!” her grandfather, Lord Manderly, shouted out.

There was a lull, just for a moment, as the lords of the North assessed his sister. Sansa Stark looked especially regal just then, her seat above and before them, her long dress and fur cloak and bright hair drawing every eye. She was beautiful and gracious and fierce. She was a northern queen.

“The Queen in the North!” the cry rang out from every corner of the Hall.

“The Queen in the North!”

Jon dreamed and knew he was dreaming. Bran was next to him, older, and walking, and dressed in black. A hot wind blew over dusty grasses and the castle above them was baked red-gold in the late afternoon sunlight. A woman was screaming from inside the tower, her cries gnawing at Jon.

A man’s voice was shouting, but Jon could not make out the words. There were dead men around them, most in Stark colors, but several of them wore armor emblazoned with the three-headed Targaryen dragon. One of these men, his throat slit horribly, was lying up and gazing, dead, at the sun. His eyes were beautiful, and the sword in his limp hands shone strangely in the sunlight.

“Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning,” Bran said. Both of them had grown up with stories of Ser Arthur Dayne, the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, the true pinnacle of knighthood, and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen’s best friend.

“Who is screaming?” Jon asked.

And Bran opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. For a moment he looked perplexed and Jon tried to reach out to him. And then Bran contorted horribly, his body shifting, his eyes widening in horror. His bones crack, broke, reformed. Bran was screaming and Jon grabbed him, but his hands passed right through.

And then Bran was no more and a crow, huge, hideous, with three eyes and a beak covered in blood, flew at him. Jon threw his hands up, attempting to protect his face, his eyes, but it was too late.

Everything went black.

Jon was nowhere and he was nothing. The darkness was all around him and all he knew was the darkness. And he couldn’t get out. Not matter how hard he screamed, how frantically he ran and clawed, there was no out. There was no him. There was just nothing. He was dead and there was nothing.

Jon woke. His breathing was erratic and he was covered in sweat.

He heard the crackle of the fire, the low grumbling of Ghost in his sleep, but he could not still his breathing. The air would not come, and as he gasped for it, remembering that darkness, that nothingness, he turned over, all but falling out of the bed onto the cold, stone floor.

Ghost lifted his head and his red eyes watched Jon, but he didn’t move. Sansa murmured quietly in her sleep, and Jon’s head shot towards her. Her bed had been placed on the opposite side of the room, and she shifted now, a frown furrowing her brow.

Jon stumbled over to her, trying to be quiet, trying to breathe. He sat down on the edge of her bed, heaped with furs, and definitely bigger than his. One whit arm was thrown over the covers, and Jon covered her hand, wanting to grip it fiercely and desperately trying to restrain himself.

Sansa looked peaceful in sleep, her eyelashes fluttering as she dreamed and her lips slightly parted as she breathed.  
Jon leaned closer to her. Red lips, ivory skin, auburn hair; she was so very beautiful. He rested his head gently against hers, foreheads touching. Sansa stilled in her sleep but she did not wake. His breathing grew less frantic, less erratic, as he automatically matched his breathing to hers.

Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. 

Her breath ghosted across his lips and Jon desperately wanted to kiss her.

Everything she had been through had only made her stronger. Jon knew that she had no idea how extraordinary that was, how extraordinary she was. Edd was the same way. Sansa was still such a lady, gracious and regal; Edd still cracked jokes and complained about everything; but there was steel in both of them, a core of strength that only grew.   
Both of them made Jon feel ashamed, for he felt weak and frail and brittle, as if after everything he had been through, one more battle, one more fight, one more harsh word, would break him. Deep down he feared that there was something wrong with him, and he desperately wanted to kiss Sansa to see if somehow, magically, some of her strength could be shared with him. But he also just wanted to kiss her because she was Sansa – she felt like his. 

And Jon was ashamed of this most of all. He could just see Robb’s face if he knew Jon’s thoughts. He could just imagine Lady Catelyn’s. 

Jon pulled his hands back from Sansa as though burned. The fire crackled, Sansa sighed peacefully in her sleep, and Jon fled. 

He found Edd patrolling the perimeter around the Last Hearth. “I just got on my shift,” the dolorous black brother said. “Typical really, for it just started howling.” The wind whipped around them, swinging their heavy fur cloaks, and stealing their breath away.

“Wind’s from the north,” Jon observed. All he could see still was Sansa, asleep, with the fire shining in her bright hair.

The two of them paced together for a while, neither of them saying a word, but their shoulders brushing. Jon took comfort in Edd’s presence, his friend’s presence, his brother’s presence. He hoped that Edd derived some measure of comfort from him as well.

“I think you’ll be alright here,” Edd said at last. They had stopped before the main doors. Two of the Umber men were stationed outside, but they were far enough away that their words could not be overheard.

Jon looked at him, waiting for Edd to explain. Edd studied the Umber men appraisingly. “I had my doubts that these fuckers would back us,” he said. “The North seemed to abandon your family so easily after your father’s and then your brother’s death. But I’ve been watching how they watch both you and Sansa. And not just these great lords, but the smallfolk. They will follow you, Jon.”

“I am Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon returned. “My duty is not just to the North anymore, it has to be to the Realm.”

“And as Davos told you before he left, the Realm will fall without the Starks in the North. Do you think Roose Bolton will send men to defend the Wall when the White Walkers attack? Do you think he will stand with us if the Wall is ever breached? Because I don’t think so. We called for aid, remember? If your brother had been alive he would have sent men, because he was a Stark and the North was his. But only Stannis answered. Well, Stannis doesn’t have an army anymore, and there’s no way I think any of those fancy southern lords would answer. What do your people always say? ‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.’ I agree with Davos, you are needed here, but I am not.

“Send me back to the Nightfort, Jon. Make someone else acting Lord Commander while you are away, but stay here and help Sansa take back Winterfell.” Edd paused, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed. “If Sam were here, he would tell you the same thing.”

Jon looked at Edd’s solid form and fierce eyes. He pulled the other man to him and hugged him hard, Edd returning his embrace just as tight. They pulled apart and Jon nodded at his friend. “If there is anyone I should make acting Lord Commander, it’s you Edd,” he said, his cold voice uncharacteristically emotional. It seemed like he was forever saying farewell to those he loved.

Edd shook his head, and then just kept shaking it. “Oh no. No, no, no! Those fuckers at the Wall will try and stab me next,” he swore.

Jon smiled grimly. “Keep them in line, and keep a sharp eye on them. Greyjoy will help you, he’s stronger than he looks. And Edric Dayne is a true knight, for all that he will never be dubbed now.”

Edd was still shaking his head, so Jon continued. “And it’s more of a punishment, really, than a promotion. Your life has just gotten significantly worse, as you always predicted it would.”

Edd looked at him closely. “That was almost funny,” he said, his tone wondering and mildly amused. His eyes grew suddenly fiercer. “I won’t let you down. The Wall will hold,” he promised. His hands were on Jon’s arms.

“I know,” Jon said, but it felt like this was the last time. The Wall was a dangerous place, and the White Walkers……..well no one knew if the Wall would hold them. Edd knew this as well. Jon’s own hands tightened on Edd. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised in his turn, although this was just as unlikely. Jon could perish in his and Sansa’s attempt to take back Winterfell, through either battle, or betrayal, or even assassination. Roose Bolton was a cunning and ruthless opponent. 

Edd looked like he wanted to say more. At last he seemed to find the right words. “Don’t let anyone tell you how to live your life, Jon. You’ve already died. I think that gives you the right to spend this life any way that you want.”

Edd and the men of the Night’s Watch left as dawn came. Jon stood on the steps of the Last Hearth and watched until the last black cloak vanished over the horizon. Sansa came out and stood beside him.

“I’ll need some new clothes,” he told her inanely.

“Stark colors,” she agreed.

A horn from the south and east took them by surprise. There were horses and banners approaching at a fast pace. The look-out shouted down to them. “A sky-blue falcon against a white moon, on a sky-blue field, my lady! House Arryn and the Vale lords have come! And leading them is a banner with a bird…….it’s black……..I think it’s a mockingbird, on a green field! They’ll be here in less than an hour!”

Jon turned to find Sansa staring out across the rolling, northern hills. Her face was grim and her eyes were still as stone.

“Littlefinger,” was all she said.

 

&……&…….&……..&………&……….&

 

Tyrion will be next, and then I’m thinking Arya. I wanted to do a Bran chapter, but I’m not sure if the pacing will allow me. The story has to move forward now, and Bran’s story feels like going backwards. Stannis and Jaime still have to make an appearance as well, and then it’s back to Sansa and Jon.


	16. Tyrion

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews and to all of the people who have expressed interest in this story continuing. It was always going to, never fear, but I had to actually finish my novel first. Now that the first draft is completed and NaNoWriMo is once more upon us, expect fairly consistent updates from me. This past season of Game of Thrones was perfect. Yay for Jon and Sansa’s reunion. And their scenes were absolute gold. My original plan for this story will be only slightly modified I think and I’ll incorporate some of what happened in Season 6 but where I end up with this story still has not changed, so……..no one is safe is what I’m saying! Excelsior.

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Tyrion

 

&……&……&……&

 

Tyrion Lannister woke to find a beautiful woman in his room.

He took a deep breath and looked again.

Unfortunately she was also a woman who had absolutely no interest in him, and he had to quell a brief, irrational surge of disappointment. He opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing in his room at this time of night. Missandei put a finger to her lips in the darkness, urging him to silence, and Tyrion felt his heart begin to pound for entirely different reasons. A grin curled at the corner of his lips.

If conspiracies were a foot, he was more than happy to be involved. A Lannister was most at home when dealing with underhanded affairs. Just ask his sister. Or his recently deceased father. Also, Tyrion had been dreaming of Shae – something he very much liked to avoid if at all possible given the nature of their last meeting and the fact that every time he thought of her, it felt like knives were being driven into his lungs.

‘My lion,’ she had whispered to him in his dream, as he’d watched the sunlight play over her dark hair. He’d wondered how such a woman had ever come to love him, and he had been right to wonder; it turned out that she had never loved him at all.

Tyrion’s grin curdled like old milk. He nodded at Daenerys Targaryen’s closest companion and right hand, and then waved at her to turn around while he hunted for his pants and britches. It was boiling hot in Meereen, reminiscent of King’s Landing at the height of the summer, and he wasn’t sleeping with more layers on than a thin sheet, thank you very much; propriety be damned.

Not that his modesty now did much good; he was quite sure Missandei had gotten quite the eyeful already. The sheet was extremely thin after all. But Tyrion was quite proud of his cock and anyway, Grey Worm didn’t even have one, so she had nothing to complain about finally seeing a nice specimen like his.

Tyrion thought about this for a moment. 

Varys didn’t have a cock either. And of course Missandei didn’t. Daenerys certainly didn’t. He was surrounded by cockless beings. Cersei would love it. He tied his britches and vaguely wondered if a letter shouldn’t be sent to the youngest Greyjoy, wherever he was at the moment. He didn’t have a cock either, according to one of Roose Bolton’s last reports to King’s Landing, and therefore should be invited over to Meereen to join the Council Without Cocks. It was only polite after all. 

Tyrion decided he would ponder the philosophical ramifications of these things later, over a decanter of something extremely alcoholic. Now, however, he nodded at Missandei and followed her from the room and out into the flickering and shadowy hallway. The sconces burned low as it was very late at night, or rather very early in the morning, and anyone with any sense was long since abed.

Missandei moved like a ghost, her flat slippers making no noise on the stone floors, flitting from shadow to shadow. Tyrion felt like a lumbering oaf charging in her wake. He opened his mouth to ask her what this was all about, but she shook her head vigorously at him and he desisted. Tyrion instead watched with great interest as the former slave girl lead him on a route that absolutely avoided every single Unsullied patrol walking up and down the Great Pyramid. Obviously her former life had taught Missandei the ability to move without detection.

Tyrion wanted to ask her why it would matter if the Unsullied would see them; they were absolutely loyal to the queen anyway. But he remembered Missandei’s frantic gestures for him to remain quiet and resigned himself to silence. He wondered if the girl knew how hard it was for him to keep his mouth shut.

Jaime would have told her it was all but impossible if he was here. That thought brought sadness as well.

Tyrion missed his big brother with a sharp pang, and wondered what he was doing. He wondered how Jaime had felt when he realized that it was Tyrion who had killed their father. Tyrion was quite sure Cersei couldn’t hate him anymore than she already did, but Jaime’s reaction was something Tyrion couldn’t predict; his mercurial, reckless, disgustingly loyal brother had always been difficult to predict.

Even Cersei was never entirely sure which direction Jaime would jump. 

Pity none of their children had inherited that quality. Even Joffrey had been utterly predicable in his petty cruelties and spite. No wonder that Tyrell girl had been able to wrap him around her little finger.

Missandei stopped at the end of one hallway, waited while footsteps died away down the adjacent corridor, and then moved like a snake over to the other side. Tyrion, feeling more and more like he was still dreaming, waddled after her and cursed his small form. He panted a bit and then reached out to tug on her gossamer sleeve, pulling her down so that his mouth was almost right on top of her ear.

“Where are we going?” he breathed out hardly above a whisper.

Missandei held her breath for a moment, her dark eyes glancing carefully around the corridors, looking particularly at the cracks. Tyrion wondered what she was looking for. At last, she just shook her head in what looked like chagrin at her own paranoia. But her answer was still deliberately vague.

“You need to see something, Tyrion Lannister.” There was worry in her voice but it was the glance she bestowed on Tyrion which had the dwarf feeling a chill down his spine. Missandei’s glance held wariness, uncertainty, and determination in equal measure; she was not sure she could even trust him with this.

“Why not talk with Grey Worm?” he asked her.

Missandei vanished from his side again, moving gracefully and silently down yet another corridor. “He could not help with this.” Her answer, light as air, floated back towards him and he hurried to catch up.

In this fashion, they travelled further and further into the Great Pyramid. After many turnings, Tyrion realized that they were slowly headed downwards, into the very heart of Meereen’s fortress. They flitted past darkened sparring pits and armories, mess halls and meeting chambers, kitchens and washing rooms. Down, down they went, until they reached the dungeon levels. Here Missandei went even slower for Unsullied and Second Sons patrolled here more frequently and sometimes at random.

Occasionally they would have to backtrack, when turning a corner they found the end of their particular hallway was filled with seated, arguing, drinking and swearing guardsmen. Tyrion stayed silent now, merely following Missandei to the best of his abilities and relying on her to get them to wherever they were going undetected.

His mind was busy coming up with different scenarios. He had a number of ideas for where they were going and who they were really hiding from, but one by one they fell away as they left even the prison levels behind.

There was only one thing down here, one thing hidden so deep within sunbaked stone and rock, that Missandei would be taking him to see; the dragons.

Tyrion had seen the largest of them in the Fighting Pits when Daenerys had mounted the black beast and flown away from the fighting and chaos. He had seen the creatures huge wingspan even earlier when he had sailed through Old Valyria with Ser Jorah Mormont. Drogon, the black one was called, after Daenerys Targaryen’s dead husband, the great Dothraki Khal, Drogo. Already the creature was over thirty feet long, with a wingspan even larger, and breath which could crisp several adversaries in an instant. Tyrion could tell that it was still young, not fully grown, and would become far larger when it reached maturity. 

But it was still huge. And breathed fire. And therefore, best to avoid without Daenerys actually present.

Tyrion had never seen the two other dragons; Rhaegal, the green one, and Viserion, the white one. They had both been named after Daenerys’ dead brothers. While Tyrion privately approved of naming a dragon after Rhaegar, he felt that naming one after Viserys – who by all accounts was as mad and cruel as his father Aerys – was a bit much. Especially as Khal Drogo had reportedly killed Viserys by pouring molten gold on his head.

Missandei lightly reached out and placed a hand on his sleeve, effectively halting him. “In several minutes they will come and bring the dragons food,” she explained, her sweet voice low in an effort to project as little as possible. “There is a small alcove where we can watch. I need you to look at the faces of the men bringing the food and tell me what you see.”

Tyrion was more confused than ever but he followed her without complaint. Together they watched as two men dressed in common Meereenese servant clothes came with torches and huge haunches of raw meat – perhaps horse or cow.

One of the men placed his torch in the bracket next to the tone door and then pulled the lever downwards which caused the great, stone door to slid, nearly silently, upwards. A rank, damp, disgusting smell wafted down the corridor towards Tyrion and Missandei, and the dwarf wrinkled his nose. It was an animal smell, but an animal which had been too long in the barn without the hay being changed. Tyrion did not like this smell.

Missandei was staring hard at the two men and Tyrion looked at them carefully as well. There was nothing particularly strange about them. The older one, who had opened the door, went in first with his haunch of meet. Tyrion heard him swing it down from the top of what were, apparently steps. It hit the ground with a sickening ‘splat’ noise. Then he stepped back and waved at his companion to proceed. 

This man was younger and more muscular, with a rolling walk that spoke of a long time at sea. He too threw his haunch of meat into the darkness. Then he backed out of the dragons’ lair, pulled the lever up, and both men waited in silence for the door to slowly descend.

Then they turned and departed from the way they have come. Not a word was spoken between them the entire time.

After long moments, Tyrion turned to Missandei. She was frowning at him. “You did not see it?” she asked.

“See what?” he wondered. “They were two men. Both seemed rough but they threw the food in and left. What was wrong with it?”

Missandei bit her lip and looked back down the corridor where the two men had disappeared. She frowned in thought. “I am not sure how to put it in words, if you did not see it,” she said at last. “Those men……they were not Unsullied and not Second Sons. They were not Dothraki. They look Meereenese and sound Meereenese but Queen Daenerys did not keep any Meereenese servants from the previous rulers when she moved in here. Ser Jorah said it would not be wise and she agreed. And those men……..there were other men who delivered the dragons’ food. These men I have not seen before seven days ago. I have watched them bring the food because I come down here now that Queen Daenerys is not here, just to make sure they are alright, to tell them that she has not abandoned them. These men did not like that I was here that first night, and so the next night I did not tell them I was here.”

Tyrion tried to make sense of this.

“And….” Missandei continued after a pause. “Seven days ago, the dragons did not smell like that.”

Tyrion remembered the rank smell, like an overflowing privy, and his mind raced. You think someone is trying to poison the dragons. He realized that he had not said that last thought out loud. He didn’t believe it himself. There was no way it was possible. But there were some thoughts that were too dangerous to voice aloud even if they were untrue.

Missandei was watching him warily and Tyrion could feel his short, stunted legs begin to tremble. If the dragons were being poisoned……..

He waved at her to move onwards and numbly he followed her back to his set of rooms, closing the door after they were both inside. The wind had picked up a bit since they had been gone, and it whistled gently through the open slots in the walls, slightly cooling the scorched, baked feel that was found everywhere in Meereen. Tyrion listened to the wind for a moment, irrationally reminded of his time at the Wall; there was the same silence – oppressive and lonely – and the same, constant, relentless moaning of the wind. 

He shivered and his eyes fell on the full decanter he kept on his center table. Waddling over, he poured himself a full goblet and chugged it down, ignoring the coughing which resulted as he drank too fast. He slammed the goblet down, and then picked up the decanter. Waving it in Missandei’s direction in mute question, he didn’t even really notice her answering shake of her head, before he chugged several more mouthfuls of sweet Dornish red.

Cersei had always hated Dornish red wine; she said it was too bitter. Varys had told him that his sister’s drinking was becoming excessive and the talk of King’s Landing. Soon, he had said, she would rival her hated husband, King Robert himself.

Tyrion put down the decanter.

For long moments there was silence again. “Why come to me?” he asked the former slave girl at last. Distantly he watched Missandei’s hands wring together as he waited for her answer.

“You…..I have watched you and you seemed…….loyal….” she trailed off.

Loyal to what and to whom? Tyrion wanted to ask but did not.

Tyrion Lannister had been watching Missandei these past few months as well. The girl was always by Daenerys Targaryen’s side and seemed utterly devoted to her; not unsurprising if Daenerys had freed her from slavers as the stories said she had. But this slave girl was not ordinary; she was fluent in multiple languages, she was courteous and mannered, she was able to read and write, and most of all she was observant. Tyrion, used to the cutthroat politics of King’s Landing, had been able to recognize a razor-sharp mind when he saw one. Missandei was a quick study of people, of shifting tensions within the room, of ferreting out loyalties and weaknesses. And she was personable. People trusted her and spoke with her; the rich Lords and Ladies of Meereen because they knew she had the ear of the queen, and the poor and former slaves because they knew she was one of them.

In many ways, Missandei reminded Tyrion of a younger, female version of Varys.

But why hadn’t she gone to Varys with what she suspected and had seen? Varys was the logical choice, the Master of Whisperers, the man who was stabilizing Meereen with Tyrion’s help.

Why him, Tyrion Lannister, kinslayer and kingslayer, dwarf and fugitive and drunkard?

Tyrion did not like any of the answers that presented themselves to him. He paced back and forth across his room, occasionally taking a swig from the decanter, and felt Missandei’s eyes on him the entire time. At length, she moved over to his bed and perched on the end of it like a bird, eyeing him warily.

The first light of dawn was breaking when Tyrion at last turned to her. “What proof do you have that the food being given to the dragons is poisoned? What proof is there that they are not just sick? Or sickening for their mother? Dragons do not do well in captivity, after all.”

Missandei frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

Tyrion looked down at the mostly empty decanter in his left hand and grinned a grin without mirth. “That is what I do: I drink, and I know things.”

Missandei frowned even more. “Well, Blue Eyes from the Unsullied informed me that the men who deliver the food appeared in the kitchens a fortnight ago with the correct paperwork. He did not question their presence. And the dragons are never sick. Queen Daenerys told me that even when they were small, and there was no food or water for the khalasar as they travelled through the Red Waste towards Qarth, the dragons did not get sick.”

Tyrion tried to remember if any of the books he had read as a youth mentioned dragon sickness. He recalled that the Targaryen dragons had grown smaller and smaller through the generations from Aegon’s Conquest, until the last dragon was a stunted, blind, nearly wingless albino, who had been sterile to boot. The Maesters had long speculated that the Targaryen habit of chaining the dragons in the huge dragonpit atop Rhaenys’ Hill in Kings Landing caused weaker and weaker dragons over time.

And the Dance of the Dragons between Rhaenyra and her half-brother, Aegon, hadn’t helped matters. For the Targaryens or for their dragons.

Tyrion paused in his pacing. There was a thought somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, just waiting to pop up. He moved from foot to foot for a moment trying to joggle the thought into the forefront of his mind, but gave up after several moments. It would not come. The nearest he got was that it was two hundred years from Aegon’s Landing until the last dragon died.

That did not help matters. 

And Daenerys Targaryen had hatched her dragons from fossilized eggs found in the lands beyond Asshai of the Shadow. The strain was completely different.

Tyrion sighed and glanced out the window again.

“What we need,” he informed Missandei, “is more information. Can you get me a piece of the meat they are feeding to the dragons? Or the names of these men? Or even who gave them the paperwork which got them into the kitchens?”

Missandei nodded and stood. Tyrion crossed to her side in a moment and grabbed her arm none too gently. His heart was hammering and he wanted to tell her that the game she was entering was as familiar to him as breathing but he wondered if she would take it amiss; she was well used to dancing at the edge of instant death from her years as a slave. Perhaps she would take his warning as a threat? Or an insult. So all he said was: “Be careful.”

She smiled then, her dark eyes softening to something like fondness. “Queen Daenerys likes you,” she confided. “I knew I could trust you.”

“Don’t trust anyone!” Tyrion knew that his voice was too harsh. She startled and looked at him calmly for a moment and then nodded.

She moved towards the door. As her hand touched the handle, Tyrion called after her. “Will you tell Grey Worm your suspicions?” 

She was still as stone for a moment. “Grey Worm is many things, Lord Tyrion, but he does not know how to lie. For now, I believe it should just be the two of us.” And then she was gone.

Tyrion saw no need to tell her that he agreed completely. 

Wearily, he put the decanter down and attempted to get several hours of sleep before the Council Meeting scheduled for mid-morning, but his dreams were filled with Shae, who smiled at him sweetly and then morphed into his sister, Cersei, who placed a goblet of wine to her lips and smiled a smile filled with ecstasy as she gazed at something green and flickering beyond Tyrion’s sight. And then Cersei was gone and the Mad King stood in her place. Or how Tyrion imagined the Mad King to look from Jaime’s stories, as he had never seen the man himself. Tyrion watched the Mad King laugh, and his pyromancer laugh with him, as Grand Maester Pycelle and Varys watched from across the Great Hall. Tyrion watched his brother, Jaime, stalk through the darkened halls of the Red Keep as Aerys laughed and the green flames from the pyromancer’s wildfire spread ever higher around them. When Jaime drove his sword through the Mad King’s heart and cold smiles appeared on Pycelle’s and Varys’ faces, Tyrion woke with a shout, covered in sweat and shaking, and vowing to stop drinking so much if that was what he could expect in his dreams.

He did not sleep anymore.

At the Council Meeting he could barely keep his eyes open to listen to Varys’ report of Astapor and Yunkai’s retaking by the Masters. He vaguely took in the news that his niece, that sweet girl, Myrcella, had been murdered by the Sand Snakes in Dorne, that Prince Doran and his youngest son, Trystane, had been murdered as well, and that Dorne was now in open rebellion against the Iron Throne as well as dealing with internal revolts from those who wanted revenge for Prince Doran’s death.

That ought to keep Cersei busy at least, he thought. Word of her bounty on his head had spread even to Meereen and although Tyrion doubted anyone would attempt to cut off his head while the Unsullied patrolled the streets, anything that distracted his sweet sister from her revenge was welcome.

Tyrion cracked an eye open when Varys informed them that Stannis Baratheon had fallen outside the walls of Winterfell and that his army had been scattered to the harsh, northern winds. 

“Stannis Baratheon was a tried and tested battle commander with a fine strategic mind,” he heard himself muse aloud. “And you’re telling me he was bested by Roose Bolton and his bastard son? Bolton holds the loyalty of none of the Northern houses and his bastard, by all accounts, is a sadistic butcher.”

Varys shifted in his seat and his perfume, something light and fine from Myr, wafted towards Tyrion. “Stannis Baratheon was defeated by the weather more than he was by House Bolton. And my little birds whisper to me that his Red Priestess deserted him on the eve of battle, as well as a quarter of his soldiers. I do not know what could have caused such an event, but the force that met the Bolton cavalry was not set for battle and it turned into a slaughter, by all accounts.”

Varys’ eyes met Tyrion’s blandly. “Besides, my little birds whisper that Ramsay Bolton was given a little bird of his own. Sansa Stark was married to him at Winterfell.” Tyrion started and watched dispassionately as the wine in his goblet sloshed over the side. He did not look up and pretended very hard to be disinterested. Varys paused delicately for a moment before continuing and Tyrion knew that the other man had not been fooled. “If none of the northern houses would join Roose Bolton, none would openly join Stannis Baratheon as long as the Boltons had a Stark at Winterfell.”

Varys sighed as though weary of the entire thing. “Though, as you know, news is so hard to get out of the North. There are rumors that he survived and took the black. There are also rumors that Sansa Stark escaped Winterfell and ran north. Towards her brother.”

That caused Tyrion’s dispassion to dissolve. He cracked an eye open to study his friend and found Varys watched him carefully, so he merely shrugged. “As you say, news from the North is so hard to acquire. I’m sure we’ll find out the truth sooner or later.”

After the Red Wedding, but before Joff’s murder, Tyrion had once attempted to cheer up his young wife by telling her that once the north was theirs, and they ruled from Winterfell again, they could travel north to the Wall and Castle Black, and Sansa could visit her brother. Jon Snow had been the only family member Sansa Stark had left. Besides her mad Aunt Lysa in the Vale.

Tyrion would never forget Sansa Stark’s cold and disgusted face. “He is no brother of mine,” she had said, politely but with utter finality, “but a common, baseborn bastard. There are no Starks left, my lord. And I have no wish to speak of Jon Snow ever again.” And she had turned away from him.  
Tyrion had remembered then that Sansa Stark was her mother’s daughter, and Lady Catelyn, by all accounts, had hated the baby Ned Stark had brought home from the wars.  
Tyrion had remembered feeling pity for the boy at the Wall; he had liked Jon Snow. But he had done as his young wife had requested, and he had never mentioned his named again.

Now, hearing that Sansa had run north, he wondered if his little wife had lied to him about her feelings for Jon Snow, or if she had just been desperate. Was Sansa Stark smart enough, cunning enough, ruthless enough of her own feelings, to cut off all mention of the last brother – the last family she had – before they even began, in order to save his life?  
Jon Snow was a Stark; the North was even him even more strongly than his trueborn brothers. He was trained by Ned Stark alongside his brother, Robb, the King in the North, the one they had called the Young Wolf. Robb Stark had frightened Tyrion’s father, Tywin, so greatly that Tywin had conspired to utterly destroy the boy’s House. And Jon Snow was next in age.

But King’s Landing, and most importantly Tyrion’s sister, Cersei, had forgotten about the boy. Jon Snow was in the Night’s Watch and a bastard to boot. But a name did not change the true essence of a thing, Tyrion knew that. He wondered when Sansa Stark had figured that out.  
He wondered when she realized that Jon Snow’s bastard status had protected him, while his little brothers had been murdered for their name, and Sansa had been used as a pawn for hers.

He made sure none of this showed on his face. Daenerys Targaryen had no love for Starks and her Court would have none either. So he shrugged at Varys and merely said, “The boy is in the Night’s Watch, if he’s still alive. There is little he can do. The Boltons will reclaim her soon enough.”

Varys ended his report with news about the Golden Company out of Myr. “They’ve broken their contract with the city, a thing unheard of in their history.” The Eunuch frowned thoughtfully. “Most unusual, but then we live in unusual times. We shall have to keep an eye on where they turn up.”

Tyrion cursed his suspicious mind that automatically noted how Varys watched his reaction to the news of Jon Snow and the Stark girl as well as how briefly he touched on the Golden Company. Varys was his friend and, besides his brother, the only person Tyrion truly trusted in this world.

Silently he cursed Missandei as well. It was her suspicions which had caused all this tomfoolery in the first place. 

And then he cursed himself as well when he heard his voice add, “Perhaps we should talk about the dragons before we call this meeting to an end.” He studied his wine forlornly and heard Grey Worm shift from across the room.

Grey Worm’s second in command, an Unsullied named Hero, said, “The dragons are sickening and we do not know why.”

“Really?” Varys asked, and Tyrion could hear the concern in his voice.

“Daenerys is the Dragon Queen,” said a man named Admiral Groleo, “we cannot allow the dragons to die.” Tyrion looked up and watched the captain who had been sent by Illyrio Mopatis to bring Daenerys back to Pentos. Captain Groleo had very quickly joined Daenerys’ side when she had refused to go back with him, had sacrificed ships to help her build siege equipment to conquer Meereen, and had been a loyal friend ever since. 

Tyrion wondered what he knew about dragons. 

“How do we help them?” Grey Worm asked. “Who knows how to cure a sick dragon?”

Tyrion looked up from his wine to casually glance around the room at all the members of the Council. He studied their faces without seeming too. Then he took a large sip of wine.

At last he offered, “When Aegon and his sisters conquered Westeros, the dragons they used ranged over hundreds of miles. Two hundred years later the only dragons left were no larger than cats. Dragons do not do well in captivity.”

Missandei met his eyes and smiled. “How do you know that?” she echoed.

Tyrion instantly turned away to hide his own smile. He walked towards the decanter to re-fill his goblet and give himself time to respond. At last he turned around. He met Missandei’s eyes but only briefly before moving on to Varys and Grey Worm and Admiral Groleo and Hero. “That is what I do; I drink and I know things.”

His gaze settled on Varys as Tyrion asked Missandei whether the dragons had ever harmed her. “I am their friend,” he informed the Council to their skeptical glances.

“Do they know that?” Varys asked him.

Are you my friend? Tyrion asked him silently. 

“They will,” was all Tyrion Lannister said.

 

&…….&……..&……..&………&……….&

 

Tyrion has uncovered plots in Meereen. There’s plots in Oldtown. Littlefinger is up north. So much nefarious business is going down. Let me know what you think. It’s been so long since I worked on this story, that I have to get back into my Game of Thrones/ASOIAF mindset!


	17. Arya

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Thank you for all of your reviews! As was previously noted, this story was begun before Season 6 even aired, so the fact that Jon is not King in the North in this version should not be a surprise. But the fact that Sansa was hailed queen by the some of the lords of the North is not the end of the story. They haven’t even set out for Winterfell yet! Also, because she was so absolutely epic in Season 6, Lyanna Mormont will definitely be making an appearance, or several, in this story. As decided, Arya is up next. Then I’m thinking Stannis and then Jaime. And then we’re back with Sansa and then Jon. 

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Arya

 

&……&……&……&

 

“Who are you?” the Kindly Man who sometimes wore Jaquen H’hagar’s face, asked her.

“No one,” she told him, as she told him every time he asked.

“A girl lies,” he responded. As he always did.

“A girl does not lie,” Arya of House Stark said back, fiercely.

The Kindly Man, who did not look like Jaquen today, sighed sadly. “A girl lies to herself as she lies to the Many-Faced God. As she lies to the Waif. And as she lies to me.”

Arya stared back at him defiantly. “A girl is No One,” she told him with certainty. “A girl does as is asked of her by the Many-Faced God, and is who the Many-Faced God says she is.” Arya believed it. She would believe it, because she had no other choice.

The Kindly Man studied her in silence for a while. “To wish for a thing, does not make it so,” he told her finally. “But a girl cannot lie forever.” He left her then, fading back into the darkness and the silence of the House of Black and White. Arya turned back slowly towards her duties of washing the dead. She kept her head down and her hands steady as she carefully and thoroughly cleaned the bodies. There was only silence with the dead, and they would never hurt her. In many ways, Arya found the duty relaxing even as she wondered who they were and why they had died.

Most of the people Arya washed were old; men and women, dark and fair, but mostly old. Why they had sought the Gift from the House of Black and White, she did not know. The noise of the outside world never disturbed the quiet tranquility of the novices, full-trained initiates or those who sought the safety of this place.

But sometimes Arya washed a young person, and even occasionally a child, and then she was sad. Who are you? she would ask them as she cleaned them, and How have you come here? It was as if by the very act of washing them she could take away the pain and horror they must have experienced in life to drive them here.

The old she could understand. In the North, when the winters were particularly long and hard, or the old were too numerous, or there was enough food, there would come a time, Old Nan had told her, when old men and women would tell their children and grandchildren that they were going off to hunt. No one ever asked what they were hunting in the depths of winter when the snows were piled twenty feet high. 

“The sons would clear their throats and the daughters would cry,” Old Nan would say in her quivery old voice, “but no one would ever stop them. The would walk off into the storm and when the small children would ask after them, their parents would tell them that grandmother and grandfather, great aunt and great uncle would return in the spring. They never did,” Old Nan would finish,” but those children would make it to the spring because of the wisdom of the old.” She would cackle then. “Just you remember that, my little lady,” she told Arya sternly, “and do as you’re told,” but her lips were crinkling at the corners.

Her father, Lord Eddard, had once told her that Old Nan sometimes confused her with her Aunt Lyanna. “Wild and willful, the both of you,” he had said, and although he had sounded sad, Arya did not think he meant it as a bad thing.

“Old Nan always confuses Bran with other Brans,” Arya had said then. She knew that she had had an Uncle Brandon and that even her grandfather, Lord Rickard, had had an older brother named Brandon, who had died while still a baby. Starks usually had a Brandon in every generation, mother had said. It was tradition.

“She has seen many Brandon Starks,” Lord Eddard had said solemnly, “and helped raise all of them. You would do well to heed her wisdom, daughter.”  
But her father was dead now, and Old Nan was most likely dead as well. Arya had heard that Theon and the Ironborn had taken the castle, and killed her brothers Bran and Rickon. And then the Boltons had taken it from them.

Sometimes, at night, when Arya forgot that she was No One, she was glad that the Boltons had taken the castle from Theon. He had betrayed her family and killed her little brothers and she hoped that the Boltons had hurt him terribly before killing him.

Arya realized that she had paused in her cleaning of the old woman she was currently working on, and smoothly brought herself back on task. 

That night, after Arya had gone down to the kitchens to help with preparing the evening meal, the Kindly Man came and told her to follow him. They walked together into the great hall of faces, with its strange, unseen lights, and the faces of the dead staring down at her. Huge columns filled with these faces looked down on her, in silent judgment she thought. The first time she had been here Arya had been afraid, but she had been here many times since then, and the faces no longer held any alarm for her.

“Who are you?” the Kindly Man asked. He looked like Jaquen now. Arya did not know whether that made it easier for her to answer him, or harder. Perhaps he did not know either.

“No One,” she said, quietly, humbly. She had been working on sounding humble all afternoon.

There was a long silence for a moment. At last, the Kindly Man spoke again. “A girl is no longer, ‘No One’. It is time a girl goes out into the world and learns to be someone; someone else.”

Arya stared to the side of the Kindly Man, her hands clasped behind her back, as she thought. “Who is a girl to be?” she asked.

“A girl is free to choose her own name, but a girl must become one of the people of this city. A girl must become used to seeing Braavos and for Braavos to become used to seeing her. A girl must become invisible, so a girl will go from the House of Black and White and she will serve.”

“Serve how?”

“A girl will sell oysters, clams and cockles. A girl will become good at selling oysters, clams and cockles. Perhaps, after she has become good at this, a girl will give a gift to someone. You leave tomorrow.”

That night, Arya lay on her lumpy, rag-filled mattress and tried to still her mind, but sleep would not come. The Kindly Man was giving her a chance, she knew that, and she could not afford to fail for she had nowhere else to go.

‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,’ her father, Lord Eddard Stark, had told her once, long ago. Arya had had a pack then; a mother and a father and an uncle, four brothers and a stupid sister and a direwolf name Nymeria. And when she had lost her pack because of Joffrey and the queen, she had tried to make a new one. But Lommy Greenhands and Yoren had been killed, and Hot Pie had wanted to bake bread instead, and eventually even Gendry had left her for the Brotherhood and then been sold to a Red Witch.

Arya had tried to get to her mother and Robb, but she had been too slow. She still dreamed of the fires which consumed the Stark banners and of Grey Wind’s head shoved onto Robb’s mutilated body as the Freys chanted, “The King in the North!”

Arya’s little brothers, even the baby, Rickon, had been murdered, her uncle Benjen had been lost beyond the Wall, and her stupid, pretty sister, Sansa, had been married to the Imp, the last that Arya had heard. And when she had tried to go north to Jon, she had been unable to get through. The Boltons and the Ironborn fought in the neck around Moat Cailin, no ship would take her to the Wall, and a big, fierce woman with a Lannister sword and a Westerlands squire, had killed the Hound and was chasing her.

Arya had fled to Braavos, to the Faceless Men and the House of Black and White, Jaqen H’hagar had told her to seek if she should ever need it. There was nowhere else to flee to from here; she had no pack left and no home but the one she was trying to make here, so she had to make this work.

“Cat,” she told the Kindly Man, as she stood by the front doors the next morning. “I will be Cat. There are cats everywhere in Braavos and no one will notice one more. It’s as good a name as any.”

The Kindly Man had smiled then and nodded and sent her on her way, and Arya had only felt mildly guilty. How would the Kindly Man know that her father had sometimes called her mother, Cat?

Arya watched the massive doors of the House of Black and White close behind her. The doors were taller than ten men standing one on top of another, and were split right down the middle. The left side was made of weirwood, shining bone white in the darkness, but the right was all of ebony and was as black as night. Arya put her hand on the weirwood door and felt its strange warmth even in the cool damp that was rolling off the Braavosi canals.

The Titan of Braavos roared as the dawn came. “All men must serve,” she told herself, as she turned to look out at the sea. Braavos was a city of fog and rain and sunless days, but Arya loved the rare days when golden rays shone through the clouds and bathed the stone houses, slate roofs, and bustling waterways in a golden glow.

The Kindly Man had found her a place with an old man and his children. Every night Cat slept warm next to his two daughters and all day she spent selling all manner of seafood and shellfish to the rough traders, merchants, sellswords, whores, and travelers of Braavos’ many docks. The Kindly Man requested her to learn three things by the time she returned to the House of Black and White at the new moon, and she did. Every time Arya returned, she told him three new things she had learned.

So Arya served and she learned. She learned words in High Valyrian and Braavosi, she learned how to play the finger dance, how to curse like the sailors did, and the proper way to cook a clam. She learned of the dragon queen in the east, the different parts of the swift-sailing trading vessels which docked in the port, and the rivalries among the mummers and musicians and various highborn families. She learned when to fight and when to run away and when to threaten with words and a look. She even learned how to kiss a boy.

Sometimes she was even happy. Or she would have been without the wolf dreams. Even as Cat of the Canals, she could not rid herself of running through pinewoods on four legs, swift and sure and fearless, her pack behind her and cold, autumn air filling her lungs. Arya loved the wolf dreams and she hated that she loved them because they meant that she was still Arya of House Stark.

‘House Stark is gone,’ she told herself over and over again, ‘and Arya Stark had been a scared little girl, a mouse, who only ever ran away and watched as her family was killed.’

So she was Cat now; she was better at being Cat than she had ever been at being Arya Stark.

One day though, Arya learned that over in Westeros, the Night’s Watch had elected a new Lord Commander. “Some bastard from the North,” a man out of Duskendale told a man from the Arbor over a pint of Ale in “The Mummer’s Farce.” “Jon Snow.”

Cat of the Canals froze like a deer, like a mouse, at the name. 

The man from Duskendale guffawed loudly. “The men from Eastwatch call him The Black Bastard of the Wall!”

The man from the Arbor, less in his cups than his companion, took a sip of his own ale and frowned. “Strange tales coming own from the Wall,” he said. “Tales of giants and Wildling invasions and dead men with blue eyes that cannot be killed. I even heard one old sailor our of Lannisport talk of ice spiders big as hounds!” Both men laughed at that and even Cat smiled. Old Nan had told stories of spiders big as hounds, but although Sansa had gasped in fear, Jon and Robb had laughed loudly and asked whether there were ice bears or ice dragons as well.

“King Stannis Baratheon went up to deal with the wildlings,” the man from Duskendale said mockingly.

“So they say,” the man from the Arbor agreed. “As long as he stays away from King’s Landing again.” He shuddered. “The river burning once was more than enough for one lifetime.”

“He can bugger off across the Sunset Sea for all I care,” the man from Duskendale opined, and the two drank in companionable silence.

That night Arya dreams of the great weirwood tree in Winterfell’s godswood, with its sad, red face, and she dreamed of Jon Snow’s smile as he had said goodbye to her that last time.

Arya Stark cried silent tears in her sleep and when she spoke to the Kindly Man at the next new moon, her three things did not include any news from Westeros.

Cat did not hear any more news about Lord Commander Jon Snow for many more turnings of the moon. She became good at telling the Kindly Man that she was No One, at leaping from roof to roof with other Braavosi youth as they avoided the City Guard, and even at learning how to cut another man’s purse strings, which the Kindly Man agreed was very useful information indeed.

Eventually she was set to training with the Waif using wooden staves, and with the Kindly Man taking away her senses one at a time so as to strengthen her remaining four. The Waif was a harsh taskmaster and did not like Arya Stark, even though Arya was No One.

Over and over again the Waif beat her bloody and told her that she did not belong there.

The Waif knocked her feet out from under her in one swift sweep. Arya’s back and head slammed into the stone floor and she saw stars. Everything hurt and for a moment she was so dizzy that she could not climb back to her feet. Distantly she heard the Waif taunt, “You will never be one of us, Lady Stark.”

Arya saw her brother, Jon Snow’s sad, dark eyes then, as he lowered them to the ground before Lady Catelyn. Arya’s mother had stared at her brother coldly. “You are not a Stark. Your place is at the lower tables and I will not have you offending the king and queen when they arrive.” Lady Catelyn turned away, not seeing the pain on Jon’s face. Arya knew that her mother would not have cared, even if she had seen.

Jon had never been a Stark, and Arya would never be anything but a Stark.

Snarling, she hurled herself back onto her feet. She pulled her dueling stick down into a ready position, placed herself in one corner of the training square so that she was unable to be attacked from either side, and waited.

Arya had dreamed that Nymeria had found her mother’s body floating in the Trident. Lady Catelyn had been dead for several days then, her throat slashed the bone, and her corpse bloated and partly rotted. Nymeria hadn’t noticed the overwhelming smell though. Arya had swum out into the river, clasped Lady Catelyn in her sharp teeth, and pulled her over into the tall reeds which bordered the fast-flowing waters.

When other wolves came to fight for her prize, Arya snarled at them. Nymeria only slunk away when she saw the Brotherhood Without Banners making their way through the woods towards her. She did not want to run into them again for they had attacked her pack before and killed two of her packmates. Arya did not trust Beric Dondarrion, he had sold Gendry to Melisandre and let the Hound go, but he had nothing to gain from her mother’s dead body. She thought that he would burn her mother, as all Tullys should be sent to rest, but Arya became the Arya with two legs again before she had time to find out.

“A girl will no longer be Cat,” the Kindly Man told her one night. He looked like Jaqen H’hagar today. Cat, who was now No One again, had once tried to figure out whether there was a pattern to the time when he wore Jaqen’s face, but she had been unable to decide. When a girl had been Arya, her brother Jon had once told her that when something looked too perfect to be a coincidence, it usually wasn’t one.

“Who is a girl today?” she asked, careful to keep her face smooth and her eyes down. The Kindly Man was better at the lying game than the Waif had ever been and she knew she would learn nothing from his face, but perhaps his voice would give something away. 

“A girl can choose another name,” the Kindly Man told her. “Then she will go to the mane they call the King of the Mummers, whose true name is Izembaro, and she will serve and learn.”

“I am to act in a play?” she asked, knowing that her voice gave her excitement away as plain as day. She pinched herself to remember that Arya of House Stark had always wanted to join an acting troupe, but that she was not Arya of House Stark.

“You will do whatever this king of mummers requires, the Kindly Man said calmly. “And what name will you choose?”

She thought for a moment.

“It is good you do not bite your lip anymore, child,” the Kindly Man said approvingly. “That is something Arya of House Stark did, not you.”

“Yes,” she agreed. And then, “I shall be Mercedene.” It was a name she had heard once at the docks. “But I shall be called ‘Mercy’ for short.” The Gift of Mercy, she thought, and saw the Hounds battered and bloody face once more. That is what she was being sent to give to people.

The Kindly Man smiled. “That is a good name.”

So Mercy served Izembaro, the king of mummers. After two moons waxed and waned she was given her first role with the troupe; a page boy with no speaking lines. But Mercy was a natural performer, able to mime with just her face and her walk, and she had the audience howling with laughter by the end of the play. Soon after, she was given small parts with lines in them and, after six more turns of the moon, Arya reported back to the Kindly Man that she had been given a red wig to war and told that she was to play the part of the Traitor’s Daughter in the new play the mummer’s would perform for some important guests from Westeros.

“Good,” said the Kindly Man. “Watch and learn.”

He did not have to say that there was to be no repeat of what happened the last time important guests had arrived from Westeros. Arya of House Stark had killed Ser Meryn Trant then, but she was Mercy now and Mercy did not know how to kill anyone. Mercy was funny and hardworking and well-liked. Mercy had a job and a pallet on the floor at night and a hot meal in her belly every night. Mercy had a life that Arya of House Stark, feeling across the Riverlands, had only dreamed of. 

Last time, envoys from the Seven Kingdoms had come to petition the Iron Bank of Braavos for yet more loans. The Lord of the Reach and Highgarden, Lord Mace Tyrell, had come in person and had been refused. According to the Westerosi sailors in the Ragman’s Harbor, this time the Dornish were coming. Prince Doran and his son, Prince Trystane, had been murdered by their own kin, the rumors went, the Sand Snakes, and had broken with the Iron Throne. Arya had not known Prince Doran Martell but she would have approved of yet more foes for the Lannister queen to fight. Mercy, immersed in her role as the Traitor’s Daughter, did not care.

“My father was a traitor,” she said in tremulous tones, kneeling in a dark purple gown, with a red wig upon her short brown hair, before the golden-haired boy king. “My brother and mother are traitors. I have traitor’s blood in my veins.”

“Your father tried to steal my throne,” the boy king said regally. “He was greedy and corrupt.”

“He was, Your Grace,” Mercy, as the Traitor’s Daughter, whispered contritely. But she made sure the crowd saw her clench her fists and tighten her lips. The Traitor’s Daughter was not as repentant or as loyal to her king as she appeared.

When the traitor’s head was cut off, Mercy made sure to scoop it up and cry bitter tears. When the Imp poisoned the boy king with her help, she made sure to smile triumphantly. As the queen, played by the magnificent Lady Crane, swore vengeance on her enemies while holding her dead son in her arms, Mercy found herself wishing she had been there when it had actually happened; she would have liked to have watched Joffrey Baratheon die.

As the play continued, performance after performance, Mercy found herself dreaming of the Traitor’s Daughter. She remembered Sansa screaming for their father’s life as the sword descended. She saw her faint as their father was beheaded and she was carried away by Yoren. “The wolf girl,” men and women in Braavos called Sansa Stark, and stories off the ships from Westeros said that after she had claimed vengeance for her father’s death, she had sprouted wings and escaped King’s Landing, flying north to her family’s great castle of Wintefell.

It all sounded like nonsense and a stupid story to Mercy, but as she said the wolf girl’s lines over and over again, she felt…guilt.

Arya of House Stark had run; she had run from the Kingsguard and the Lannister soldiers, she had run from King’s Landing, run from the Red Wedding, and finally run from Westeros. She had left her sister alone, surrounded by enemies, and she had never gone back for her.

But Arya was gone, Mercy told herself, and Sansa Stark hadn’t needed her anyway; however she had done it, Sansa had escaped on her own. She had gone home.

On the last day of the play, as she sang a stupid love song to prove her loyalty to the boy king, Mercy realized that she would have given anything to see her sister again and hear her singing as she brushed out Lady’s coat.

Mercy cried then, but it was all part of the performance.

When she looked up, there was a man of the Night’s Watch in the crowd, watching her. He was big and fat and young, with a doughy face and a bit of fuzz on his chin that he undoubtedly called a beard. He stood next to a woman with a baby, and an old man who wore the grey robes and chains of the Citadel. Mercy watched them curiously as the actors took their bows amid thunderous applause. One of the men from the Dornish contingent made his way over to talk to the maester, and then Mercy saw the fat black brother’s face light up with recognition. He called to someone over the din and Mercy saw one of the singer’s, a finely-clad, handsome young man, turn towards the Black Brother. He did not look best please to see him, however.

Mercy hurried below to change out of her costume.

Izembaro had several tasks for her to complete and by the time she made it back outside the sun had set and night had fallen over Braavos. The crowd before the stage had dispersed but one of the Dornishmen was still hanging around, talking to the Black Pearl, Braavos’ most famous and beautiful courtesan. It was said that she was descended of the dragon’s blood herself but Mercy thought that this was easy to claim but not so easy to prove. Mercy knew that the Black Pearl was friends with the King of the Mummers and that tonight she waited for him.

Mercy politely went up to the Dornishmen, who had a beard oiled and pointed into two forks and teeth which gleamed wickedly in a tanned face, which way the Black Brother had gone. The dark man told her that their little party was heading towards “The Mummer’s Farce” as tavern boasted of rooms for rent upstairs.

“Why do you want to know, girl?” he asked curiously. Braavosi were not generally interested in the men who guarded the Wall.

“My brother’s in the Night’s Watch,” Mercy replied. But no, that wasn’t true. Arya of House Stark had a brother in the Night’s Watch, not Mercy the mummer of Braavos.

“Strange stories coming down from the Wall,” the Dornishman said. The Black Pearl, lounging elegantly beside him with her face behind a veil, began to look bored.

“Have you heard anything of Lord Commander Snow?” Mercy heard herself ask with Arya’s voice.

But the Dornishman noticed the courtesan’s bored expression and bid Mercy a good evening, so her question remained unanswered. The moon was dark and hidden tonight and she was supposed to make her way back to the House of Black and White but she found herself wandering down to the Ragman’s Harbor, watching knife fights and pickpockets and wandering minstrels and drunken sailors from half a hundred ports. When her feet took her to “The Mummer’s Farce”, the restless waves lapping against its sturdy, wooden walls on the piers, she was not surprised. The inside was warm and smoky, filled with a dozen tongues and men and women from both Essos and Westeros and even the Summer Isles, all eating and shouting and drinking.

Mercy found the fat black brother arguing with the singer.

“You said the words,” he was saying. “Jon sent you to King’s Landing and Oldtown and Dorne to be a recruiter, not to Braavos to sing for your supper and for whores. We need men, as many men as we can get! Do you not remember the ravens from the Fist of the First Men, and the stories from Hardhome?”

But the singer merely rolled his eyes as though he had heard this tale one too many times before and quaffed his ale. “Horse piss,” he opined at the taste, frowning into his drink before setting it back down with a thunk. “The worst brothel in the Purple Harbor sells better ale than this.”

“Are you listening to me, Dareon?” the fat one demanded. The maester, old but thin and wiry, sat next to him but said nothing, keeping himself immersed in his book.

“Sam the Slayer,” the singer mocked. “Why are you here?”

“Jon sent me to Oldtown to become a maester and now I’m on a mission for old Maester Aemon, who died you know,” the fat one said reproachfully. “But I will go back to the Wall when I am done. And so will you,” he said fiercely.

Dareon snorted. “I will do no such thing. You may do as you please and return to freeze and starve at the arse end of nowhere, fighting children’s stories and wildlings, but I will not. They love me here. They say I have a voice like honey poured over thunder.”

“It was Maester Aemon who said that,” Sam objected. He frowned. “I will tell Jon,” he threatened.

Dareon scoffed. “And what do you think Lord Snow can do to me all the way over here?” he mocked. And the he left.

Later that night, she returned to the House of Black and White. She placed a pair of good boots, several sizes too big for her, on the table before the Kindly Man. He looked at them and then at her. “And what three things have you learned today, child?” he asked.

She looked at him. “That good boots are hard to find,” she said. “That a Night’s Watch deserter has been murdered and his body thrown in the canals.” She placed her left hand on Needle’s hilt. “And that I am Arya of House Stark and of Winterfell. And I’m going home.”

 

&……&…….&…….&……..&……..&

 

What did you think? The part I missed the most from Arya’s storyline in the show in Season 6 was that she never met up with Sam.


	18. Sansa IV

Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. I decided that because this story hasn’t been updated consistently in so long, that a Sansa chapter and then a Jon chapter, which addresses at least some of the events which happened in Season 6, are called for. The plot points in this chapter were always going to happen but I’ve just moved up the timeline a bit. Enjoy! Also, your lovely reviews give me life and make me write faster. Thank you so much!

 

&……&……&……&…….&…….&

 

Sansa

 

&……&……&……&

 

“It’s the arrival of the birds,” Sansa said quietly. She could feel Jon’s piercing gaze upon her as she turned to go back inside. In her mind’s eye she could still see the valiant blue banners of House Arryn snapping in the wind, and the man all in black who road at their head.

Sansa stood in the Great Hall at Last Hearth and courteously greeted the delegation from the Vale. Her brother, Jon, stood beside her.

‘Half-brother,’ she reminded herself. At night she dreamed of his lips upon hers, the darkness and desire in his eyes, and of her hands in his soft, dark curls. In the morning, she would wake wet and aching and ashamed, and she would tell herself stories of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight. But one look at Jon’s handsome yet stoic face and she would be reminded of their father, and of Cersei and Jaime Lannister as well.

Jon looked particularly like Ned Stark today, with his dark hair pulled back from his face like their lord father had worn it, and wearing the new fur cloak she had made him in the image of the one their father had worn as Lord of Winterfell.

Or as near as she could remember, anyway.

The day of the Vale delegation’s arrival was fine, crisp and cold and sunny, with new fallen snow covering the buildings and grounds of Last Hearth. The Great Hall did not have a fire lit in its large fireplace during the day, in order to save wood, and Sansa’s breath misted on the air as Lord Petyr Baelish bent over her hand and kissed the back of her fingers slightly longer than was proper.

Jon had noticed too if the slight tightening of his lips was any indication.

“Lady Stark,” Littlefinger said, straightening up and bestowing her with a smile which almost, but did not quite, reach his grey green eyes.

“She is the queen in the North,” growled belligerent Mors Umber from off to the right, “her brother’s heir.” Sansa knew this was less support for her new claim than it was Mors Umbers’ mistrust of southerners. He looked for any excuse for insult from the group of shiny knights and lords which currently befouled his Halls.

“My queen,” Littlefinger corrected himself, and that somehow sounded even worse.

He had not even once glanced at her brother.

Sansa took a half step back, turning to Jon slightly as she did so. “Lord Baelish, may I present my brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow.”

Jon nodded at the Lord Protector of the Vale and the ruler of Harrenhal. “Lord Baelish.” Jon’s tone was perfectly polite but there was an air of coolness behind it and his eyes were sharp. “My sister tells me that you helped her to escape from King’s Landing and the Lannisters. For that, you have my thanks and the gratitude of House Stark.” Jon pointedly did not mention that Littlefinger gave Sansa to the Boltons, instead of delivering her safely to Castle Black and her last, known, remaining kin.

Petyr’s smile flickered and died. “Forgive me, Lord Snow, but it was my understanding that Lady Sansa is the last of the House, and that you had taken oaths to the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa stayed silent but she noted the flash of anger on Lord Robett Glover’s face and Wylla Manderly opening her mouth before her sister, Wynifred, grabbed her hand.

“My oath to the Night’s Watch has been fulfilled,” Jon said coldly and calmly, and then he turned decidedly away from Littlefinger. “Lord Royce, I remember you from your last visit with my father at Winterfell.” Jon’s smile was sudden and full of fond memories. “You trounced both my father and Ser Rodrick thoroughly in the yards. Father claimed he was sore for weeks afterwards.”

Bronze Yohn Royce, old now but fierce and large and still vigorous, moved forwards and engulfed Jon’s hand in one of his own large ones. He laughed loudly, “Ay, I did at that, Lord Snow, but peace had made your father slower than he should have been. Still, be put up a hard fight and I expected no less.” His smile died. “I mourned his death and I am sorry for your loss.” He nodded at Sansa. “And for yours as well, my lady.”  
He nodded at the half dozen knights behind him as well as the two dozen men at arms. “That’s why we have come. I trained your father as a boy, and Robert Baratheon as well. Lord Arryn loved them as his own sons. When we heard that Lady Sansa had fled Winterfell and gone north to you…well, the Vale has sat idly by for far too long, while good men have bled and died for the realm.”

“Pardon me, Lord Royce,” Littlefinger interrupted smoothly, “but we have had a long journey. Surely such important matters as we have to discuss are best left for a gathered council.” He turned back to Sansa. “Or however the Queen decides to hear them.” He bowed politely again.

Sansa had no choice but to find rooms for them at Last Hearth. But when Littlefinger requested a private audience with her, she smiled gently and told him that her brother and her would hear all the Vale lords and their requests later that day, when the various northern lords at Last Hearth had been gathered as well.

Lord Baelish blinked in surprise and then gave a gently amused laugh. “Oh, my news is only a report on your cousin, Lord Robert, my queen, nothing to concern the other lords or your,” he paused delicately, “half-brother.”

So Sansa smiled and led him towards the previous Lady Umber’s private solar, which had been given over to her use. “I have missed you, my lord,” she told him, once they were alone and this seemed to please him.

He settled himself before the hearth, his black robes neat and elegant. “Not so long ago you were my daughter, a beautiful chaste maiden, and now you are Lard Stark, the queen in the North.”

Sansa turned away to give herself time to think; there were several things he could want from her. She sat behind her desk with the small window at her back. “Only several of the lords cried my name,” she cautioned him. “I am not my brother, Robb, who was my father’s firstborn son and heir. Nor have I proved myself to them.” She paused and then asked, “How well do you know the North, my lord?”

Littlefinger smiled mockingly. “Well enough to know that men are the same, no matter where you find them. You need not fear for your claim, my lady. Who should the North rally behind, my love? The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born at Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the south?”

He moved around the table then and pressed his lips to her forehead for long moments. She could feel his lips against her skin as he said, “I only want to see you in your rightful home once more, my lady.”

And what will you want when I am, she wondered as he left her.

‘A pretty little bird in a cage,’ the Hound had called her, a lifetime ago. Sansa had not felt like that since she had escaped from Winterfell with Theon Greyjoy, but she remembered what that felt like now; to see so clearly and to yet never able to break free. 

When Ghost wandered in, Sansa ran her hands through his soft fur and went out for a walk. The days were short and the sun was already low behind the mountains, turning the godswood into silent shadows. The snow crunched under her feet and a sudden gust of wind tore her cloak right off. Sansa laughed as Ghost tore off after it. When he came back with it carried gently in his wicked teeth, Sansa laughed again and showered his muzzle with kisses.

He bore this placidly then shook himself and wandered off.

Sansa sat beneath the heart tree, her back almost but not quite touching the bone-white weirwood trunk. She wondered what Littlefinger would do if he knew her brother Bran was alive somewhere beyond the Wall.

Are you watching me little brother? She wanted to ask. But she did not say the words aloud. She and Jon had agreed that the fewer people who knew that Arya and Bran and Rickon were still alive, the better. Ser Davos Seaworth and the Manderlys knew about Rickon and Davos was searching for their littlest brother even now. And Brienne and Podrick Payne knew of Arya. But they had told no one else. A girl could be excused and pushed aside and married off, but a boy was dangerous; a trueborn brother was a threat to Littlefinger’s plans for her to rule the North.

Sansa watched the red leaves of the heart tree fall soft as winter snow to the ground around her, turning the pure white snow to a blood red.

She remembered a very old story from the Age of Legends, which Old Nan had once told her and Arya.

At last, she gathered up several of the leaves, called for Ghost, and went back inside just as night fell.

On the morning, Sansa went down to the Great Hall and joined Jon at the high table for breakfast. The day was cold and grey, the hall damp, but the fire in the huge hearth burned merrily and the hall was awash with quiet conversation.

Today, Jon had invited Lord Robett Glover to sit beside them. Sansa knew that Lord Glover was one of the lords most undecided about their cause. He had not acclaimed her queen in the North, and it was Stannis Baratheon who was freeing Deepwood Motte, not House Stark. Northern lords had no love for southron kings, even ones who no longer claimed kingship.

Lord Glover nodded at her respectfully as she settled beside her brother and she smiled warmly at him and wished him a good morning. Jon went still as she sat in the chair next to him, her side brushing his and her skirts skimming his legs. “Good morning, brother,” she murmured, and watched as his hand clenched around his tankard of mead. To most, she knew, his face was long, solemn and guarded, a true Stark face, difficult to read, but to her he was transparently obvious. She wondered if she knew him because he was Jon and she was Sansa, or if Littlefinger also saw what she did when she looked at Jon Snow.

“Good morning, little sister,” he returned quietly, his keen eyes raking her face for a moment of to ascertain that she was well, before he returned his attention back to Lord Glover’s recounting of some dispute between his men and Lady Cerwyn’s. Jon listened gravely and offered several suggestions and then the talk turned to pleasanter things, and Lord Glover spoke of his newborn baby daughter and the rebuilding of Deepwood Motte and Stannis Baratheon’s recent liberation of Torrhen Square.

Jon did not speak often but he was attentive and insightful, Ghost lay sprawled behind them, and the warm porridge was sprinkled with maple syrup and brown sugar. Sansa’s heart felt light and full.

Around midday, horns sounded loud and clear off the mountains and the delegation from Bear Island arrived. They were led by a small, plain-faced girl with a fierce expression under the banner of her house, a black bear in a green wood, and she was accompanied by five dozen men at arms.

“Lady Lyanna Mormont,” Jon murmured from beside her as they stood in the snapping wind before Last Hearth’s doors to receive her. “Her eldest remaining sister marched south to aid Stannis against the Ironborn.”

Sansa knew that the eldest of Lady Maege’s daughters, Dacey, had fought beside Robb and been murdered with him at the Twins. Two other daughters, younger than the second, Alysanne, but older than Lyanna, had vanished with their mother somewhere in the Riverlands.

Lady Lyanna, acting head of her House, dropped from her horse and walked halfway up the stairs towards Jon and Sansa before stopping. Her master at arms and her master stood on either side of her, half a step behind. The look she fixed on Jon and Sansa was expectant and stern, but not necessarily unfriendly.

Jon stirred and took a half step forward. “Lady Mormont,” he said respectfully, “thank you for coming.” There was a pause and Sansa knew Jon had noticed what she did. Lady Lyanna had not offered her men or her loyalty. She was still undecided on that point. “May we offer you a room at Last Hearth, my lady?” Jon asked.

Lyanna Mormont took another step up the wide, stone stairs, and looked from Jon to Sansa and back again. “It is my understanding that House Stark has called its banners and plans to retake Winterfell from the Boltons.” Although young and small, her strident voice cut clear through the northern wind. Several lords had joined together at the bottom of the stairs to welcome Lady Mormont and to watch the proceedings, but more were now appearing, as were various men at arms and smallfolk.

Sansa saw Jon glance around the rapidly growing crowd. “You are correct, my lady,” he answered Lady Lyanna.

“It is my understanding, however, that you are a Snow and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. And Lady Sansa is a Lannister. Or a Bolton. The reports I have received were unclear on this matter.”

Lady Wylla Manderly shifted in annoyance from off to Sansa’s right. “She is a Stark, and the queen!” she shouted down at Lady Mormont, who looked unimpressed.

“I am a Stark,” Sansa said calmly. “I will always be a Stark. And my brother is Ned Stark’s son.”

Lady Mormont watched her a moment and then look at Jon and continued. “My mother and three of my sisters died fighting for your brother, Robb. My only remaining sister, Alysanne, honored your request and went to aid Stannis Baratheon against the Ironborn. Hundreds of my people have died since this war began. Tell me, why should I risk one more Mormont life for yet another war, to retake a castle that neither of you are entitled to.”

There was a ripple among the assembled men and women as Lyanna Mormont’s shout echoed around the yard. Mors Umber growled loudly and shouted “traitors”, but Jon’s sharp look silenced him. Sansa was watching Littlefinger’s face. He was making careful note, she saw, of those who looked uncertain or sullen or unusually interested among the crowd. Bronze Yohn Royce, standing off to one side with several Knights of the Vale and Ser Harrold Hardyng, watched Littlefinger as well, but his looked was most certainly not friendly. She had noticed tension between Lord Royce and Lord Baelish when she had been at the Eyrie and he had once told Sansa that he had loved her father well. 

Now he stepped forward, looking belligerent. “These bloody Boltons broke every law of gods and men at the Twins; just as the Freys did! They slew your brothers and sisters, your cousins and your friends when they decided to claim Winterfell and when they stole the North!”

The Manderlys, the Umbers and the Mountain clans cheered, the Glovers and Cerwyns abstained and the Wildlings shouted at everyone around them indiscriminately.

The Lockes, the Tallharts and the Flints stood off to one side with the leaderless Hornwood contingent. There was a dead-eyed stare to almost all of the last group, and they did not look as though they cared to hear Jon’s answer or not. Sansa watched Littlefinger make note of them as well. 

Lady Mormont waited calmly, her eyes fixed on Jon. At last, at a lull in the noise, Jon stepped forward and down a step, raising a hand commandingly for silence.

“Lord Royce is correct,” Jon Snow said, his dark hair blowing the breeze and his cloak, like Ned Stark’s own, billowing behind him as well. “The Boltons betrayed us all, murdered our kin, and allied with our enemies to murder my brother, seize his lands, and terrorize his people.”

There was a rumble, angry and deep, among the northmen.

“But I promise you,” Jon continued, “that the true enemy is not Roose Bolton. The true enemy comes with the winter storms and to face it we must be united. To face it, we need Winterfell.”

The rumble that followed now was different, tingled with fear and even disbelief. 

“Then the rumors are true,” Lyanna Mormont demanded. “The Others have returned.”

And all was silent save for the relentless moaning of the winter wind “Yes,” Jon admitted. “Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost.” Sansa stirred and would have spoken but Lyanna Mormont spoke first.

“You survived,” she said. “And people in the North say that you slew a White Walker in single combat.” There was pride in her voice, pride in the eyes of the men and women looking on, as though the North considered Jon Snow theirs, and his victories theirs as well.

Lady Mormont continued. “House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years,” the Lady of Bear Island decided. “We will not break faith today.”

After dinner that night, Sansa excused herself citing tiredness. She left Littlefinger to his plots and Jon to the lords as she retreated once more to the godswood. The sanctuary to the old gods at Last Hearth was on the lee side of the mountains, protected by the fortress itself, the shallow dip in the earth where it had grown up, and very tall, stone walls. The ever-present northern wind was only a whisper here, rustling gently through the red leaves of the heart tree, the snow was deep and soft, and the stars shown brilliant and clear down upon her.

Sansa, feeling rebellious and unladylike, pretending for a moment that she was Arya, lay back in the soft fall of snow and stared up at the stars. She had learned some of their names from Maester Luwin but she had forgotten most of the stories that went with them.

After some time had passed, she heard the soft pad of Ghost, with Jon following soon after. 

He paused for half a heartbeat when he saw her lying still in the snow, but he didn’t say anything and after a moment he lay down next to her under the heart tree. His arm and leg brushed hers gently.   
Ghost prowled around the base of the weirwood tree for a while before coming to lie on her other side. He was warm and rumbled gently when she patted him. She smiled.

“Do you think that that group of stars looks like a flower?” she asked Jon.

He squinted and then followed her finger with his eyes. After a moment, he said, “I think it looks like a sword,” and Sansa giggled.

She remembered what Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, said about men and their swords and laughed harder. 

When she turned her head to look at Jon, he was watching her with a strange look on his face; part bemused, part fond, part happy that he had made her laugh, and part…something else.

Sansa’s breath caught. Jon was quite pale and beautiful in the moonlight, his hair dark and soft against the snow, and his dark eyes shining. His lips were slightly parted and his breath froze in the winter air. Sansa reached out a hand and traced the scar where the eagle had raked him and watched his eyes fall shut, before he wrenched himself away from her traveling fingers.

She froze, hurt despite herself, but he closed his eyes again, as though in pain, and them opened them and took her hand in his own. Gently, he kissed her fingers. His lips were warm but Sansa shivered all the same. Then he turned away from her to look back up at the stars, face still as stone but his fingers remaining entwined with hers.

“That one looks like a crown,” Sansa said at last, her voice hardly shaking at all. “A crown fit for a dragon queen,” she continued, warming to the idea and telling him a long tale of betrayals and heartbreaks before the queen was sent to the heavens as a reward for her virtue and bravery.

Then Jon told her some of the stories the Wildlings had for the stars, which he had learned from Ygritte, the wildling girl he had loved. She found herself disheartened to be jealous of a girl who had been dead for several years now. She wondered how many times Jon had kissed this girl, with hair as red as hers. Eventually, Jon told her of Bael the Bard, the Wildling king who lived his own songs, and the blue winter roses he had left after he stole away Lord Stark’s only daughter.

“Like Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen,” she murmured, sleepily, remembering the Tourney at Harrenhal and how Littlefinger told her that Rhaegar laid a crown of blue winter roses in her aunt’s lap. She felt Jon leave her side and sleepily protested, but he gathered her up in his arms and at that point Sansa fell asleep.

In the days that followed, Sansa hardly saw Jon for they were both kept extremely busy. As the lords settled in at Last Hearth and the Umbers complained more and more about their upkeep, Sansa kept her ears open for the talk among them.

‘King Crow,’ they called her brother, and ‘Lord Snow’ and ‘Commander’ and ‘Ned Stark’s boy.’ And even, ‘the White Wolf’ for the great, hulking shape of Ghost, who followed Jon everywhere when he wasn’t following her.

‘Winterfell’s daughter,’ they called her and ‘the wolf girl.’ Mya Stone, one of the Vale contingent who had come with Lady Myranda Royce, jokingly called her ‘the winter queen.’

Littlefinger called her brother ‘the motherless bastard’ out of his hearing and ‘Snow’ to his face. Sometimes he put a ‘Lord’ in front of it but Sansa could hear the mockery in it. She, however, was always ‘my lady’ and ‘my queen’ and ‘lady stark’ to him. 

Sansa began referring all questions on arms, armaments and battle plans to her brother. “Speak to Lord Snow,” she would tell them. She knew little of war and even less on how to lead warriors and she was not foolish enough to pretend that she did, was what she told Littlefinger when he questioned the wisdom of this move.

“I will counsel you,” he said. “Together we will take back your home.”

“But they do not know you, my lord,” Sansa had returned calmly. “They know my brother.”

His mouth had thinned at take and his eyes had grown dangerous, but courtesy was a lady’s armor and Sansa was nothing if not polite. And she remembered how Bronze Yohn Royce had mistrusted Littlefinger in the Vale, and that he had trained her father in arms when he was boy. Jon looked so much like father sometimes.

Lord Royce was a loud, blustering man but Sansa watched at dinner, when she had place him next to her brother at table. Although Lord Royce dominated all the other lords save for the two Umbers, when Jon spoke quietly Lord Royce stopped to listen. Sansa was sure that Littlefinger saw it too.

“Who should the North rally around?” he demanded of her one day, as she poured of ledgers of provisions for their march towards Winterfell. The fire was crackling and Ghost was warm at her feet, but Littlefinger’s presence brought a chill into the room.

“House Stark,” Sansa had responded at once.

“You are the future of House Stark, my love,” he said then, “You are the trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born at Winterfell.” She had not responded to that, and Littlefinger had left the room slightly more pleased than when he had entered it.

The next morning, Ser Harold Hardyng presented a request for her hand in marriage before an assembly of lords. They had gathered to discuss the march south and west to Winterfell. A storm was due to hit soon, but Jon thought there would be a lull in the weather after it had passed.

The Wulls and Norreys were pushing to march regardless of any storm and Lord Manderly wanted to know if he should sail his newly built fleet of ships up the White Fork and attack the Dreadfort by river. Sansa found Ser Harry’s proposal a nuisance and ill-timed. Jon, standing over the maps spread on the round table, grew still before he looked up at the Vale knight. He frowned and opened his mouth, eyes cold, but Sansa forestalled him. 

“I am honored by your request, my lord, but I can offer my betrothed nothing until Winterfell is once again ours.” She let mischief enter her voice. “And perhaps my lord forgets that I am already married? Although my beloved husband, Ramsay, is now dead, my marriage to him was only accepted because by House Bolton considered my first marriage, to Tyrion Lannister, to be void. Surely, though, a devout southron lord, who loves the Seven, as I am sure you do, Ser Harry, would want to get my first marriage officially annulled by the High Septon? Any betrothal would not be valid in the Vale until such a step is taken.”  
Sansa knew that the current High Septon came from among the movement calling themselves Sparrows. He was devout, some even said fanatic, and all but certain to deny a request for an annulment. Littlefinger would be unable to bribe him, and with the re-armed Faith Militant surrounding him, this High Sparrow could not be threatened either.

And Sansa’s words were proper and all a lady would say. “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,’ her mother had told her, and she was right. Sansa let regret cross her face. “When House Stark rules from Winterfell once more, we will see what can be done, my lord, for a union between the Arryns and the Starks.” Her smile was sweet and Ser Harry seemed satisfied. Littlefinger’s smile did not slip but there was a dangerous light in his grey-green eyes she did not like.

After a long silence, Jon continued, very deliberately, with recounting their current strength and supplies. “We will wait a fortnight, for any stragglers, and then we head south. We don’t have much time before the snows make the march impossible, and the less time we give Roose Bolton to prepare, the better.”

Bronze Yohn Royce, standing next to Jon, nodded decidedly. “Very good. We’ll head back to White Harbor on the morrow and take ship for the Neck. The Vale host is ready to move out as soon as we arrive. Will this Lord Howland Reed and his bogmen allow us to pass?”

Lady Myranda Royce, Lord Yohn’s second cousin, whose father held the Gates of the Moon, chuckled. “We have heard that even Roose Bolton travels with a body double when passing through the neck, for fear of these bogmen.”

Jon frowned. “You will bear our message, signed with the seal of House Stark. Lord Reed was my father’s closest friend and the crannogmen have always been true and valiant allies.”

Lord Royce nodded, satisfied. “As you say, Lord Snow.”

Sansa clapped her hands. “We must have a feast tonight, before you depart Lord Royce, and you, Lord Baelish.” She turned to the Umbers. “Is there enough time to prepare one, my lords?” Mors and Hothar turned to their womenfolk, who conferred briefly before nodding. “A small one,” a gnarled old woman said.

“We will make it so, my queen,” Lord Hothar promised.

Lady Myranda and Mya Stone came up to help Sansa dress as the day darkened into night. Sansa liked both women, whom she had known from her time in the Vale. Lady Myranda was cheerful, buxom, and shrewd, with a liking for the men and for a lively hall. Mya Stone, one of the old king’s natural daughters, was lithe and strong, with a mop of boyish black curls, and brilliant blue eyes. She was usually in charge of the mules who made the steep ascent and descent in the Mountains of the Moon, but Lady Myranda had obviously requested her presence for the ride north. Sansa could see the strong resemblance to her half-brother, Gendry, who was off with Stannis near Torrhen square.

She smiled as the two women came in and asked Myranda for any news. Lady Myranda always knew what the lords and smallfolk were saying.

Mya was silent and gruff, and went over to inspect Sansa’s chosen dress. Sansa could not get the story of Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight out of her head, and she had made careful plans for tonight, which included the careful selection of her attire.

“Your dress is very beautiful. And all in white with a silvery grey around the hem and neck,” Mya observed with some surprise. White was an impractical color in the north, and almost never worn even in the south.

Lady Myranda broke off a story of Jon elegantly beating Harry Hardyng in a sparring match to come and look as well. Then she appraised Sansa from head to foot. “This will look very striking with your auburn hair,” she opined. “A beautiful, regal northern maiden with the coloring of a weirwood tree.:

“My red hair is from my Tully mother,” Sansa said. Petyr had once told her that Lady Myranda was much cleverer than she appeared.

Mya Stone grinned. “You’ll have all those men eating right out of your hands.”

Sansa laughed. “I certainly hope not, or I will not get to eat a single bite myself.” The three women took a deep breath of the delicious smells which were wafting up from the kitchens. Sansa turned to the mirror to run a comb through her long, auburn locks. “And tonight there will be dancing,” she said, decidedly.

Jon knocked on her door and entered as they were finishing. Lady Myranda curtseyed to him and Mya offered a respectful “my lord” with a faint blush, as they moved around him and departed. Lady Myranda winked suggestively but Sansa was fairly sure Jon failed to notice. She knew that Lady Myranda found her brother handsome.

‘Half-brother,’ she reminded herself.

Jon looked a bit ill at ease. She smiled at him and spun around, her unbound hair and pale skirls swirling around her. “How do I look?” she asked him.  
He looked even more uncomfortable. “You look…very nice,” he mumbled, just as Robb would have done. She stopped spinning.

“Can I…can I help you with anything, brother?” she said politely. Her face was calm.

Jon took a step forward and his keen, dark eyes were suddenly intent on her face. “I had something made for you.” He held her present, wrapped in canvas, behind his back. “We can have another made after we take back Winterfell, but for now this should do.”

And then he unwrapped a crown. Sansa’s breath caught. It was plain but delicate, with interwoven strands of bronze and iron, and with blue-tinted metal flowers interspersed evenly around it’s edges.

The blue winter roses of Winterfell.

Sansa ran a gentle finger around the elegant strands of metal. “This one is perfect,” she breathed. Simple and strong. Like the North. “Thank you…Jon,” and she bent her head as he gently placed the crown upon her hair. His gaze racked her over, once, and then he took her arm and they went down to the Great Hall together.

Jon had worn black, as she had requested, with a white direwolf emblazoned upon his tunic, which she had embroidered there. As they entered, the hall grew quiet and Sansa knew the picture they made; her lord brother with his dark hair, pale features and dark ensemble, and she with the crown upon her head, her long red hair and the white and grey dress which swirled around her feet.

‘This is a story,’ she told herself. ‘The will see us like this and remember.’ There was a murmur of greeting among the northern lords and wildlings and bows from the Vale ones, and then they all settled n the benches and the feast began.

Sansa had sat Jon to her right and Lord Baelish, as Lord Protector of the Vale, to her left. Jon turned to speak with Lady Waynwood, on his own right, and Sansa made a face as she put her glass of wine down. “What is it, my lady?” Petyr Baelish asked solicitously, his eyes flicking from the glass to her face. “Is the wine not to your liking? We can have a more accommodating vintage brought out for you, I’m sure.”

Sansa shook her head but handed him the glass. “I’m not sure, Lord Baelish. It might just be me. My taste of food and drink has not been the same for some time; everything has tasted rather funny to me.”

Littlefinger’s face flashed with an alarm so brief that Sansa would not have caught it if she had not been watching carefully. He took the cup from her fingers and sipped, frowning. “A decent Arbor red,” he pronounced after a moment, looking back at her inscrutably.

“Take a larger sip,” Sansa urgerd. “Is it not exceedingly sour?”

Littlefinger paused. “You have a taster here, yes?”

Sansa nodded. He drank. “I find nothing wrong with it,” he decided and she saw his eyes flicker down to her stomach and then back up to her face.

Jon had overheard and moved to take the glass. “Let me taste it,” he said, but Sansa stood up and gently pulled the cup with her. “Never mind,” she sighed. “I want to see that everything is going smoothly in the kitchens anyway. I’ll get myself something different while I am there.” She could feel both men watching her worriedly as she walked away.

When Sansa returned, the feast was well underway and the food had been laid out. There was roasted goose and venison, mushrooms stuffed with sage and garlic, pork baked with apples and raisins and candied plums. There were carrots bathed in butter and dark, leafy kale with a crunch to it, asparagus in an egg, lemon and pepper sauce, cold broccoli soup, roasted beef with gravy and soft carrots, fire roasted potatoes, and cod and pollack baked with herbs. 

It was a feast fit for a queen. The men and women in the hall ate and laughed, argued and boasted. Sansa smiled at their merriment, spoke quietly with Lord Baelish and Jon, and waited.  
Seven courses there were, in honor of the Vale lords, but each consisted of only one or two dishes as this was the North and not King’s Landing. Winter was coming. The musicians, brought from White Harbor, ate with them, for Sansa had requested music only after the feast.

As the dishes were being cleared away, Sansa rose and moved around the high table to stand before it and slightly above her lords. There was a lull in the conversation as the gathering watched her. Towards the end of the feast, Jon had gone to sit with some of the wildling leaders, and was currently at the back of the hall next to Tormund Giantsbane. She met his eyes and then she motioned for Mya.

The bastard-born girl came forward with Longclaw in her hands, unsheathed and shining in the torchlight, the white wolf’s head clear upon the pommel. Sansa took the sword and placed it, point down, before her. The hall was silent and she had every eye.

‘This is a story,’ she told herself again, ‘and a queen in a story must have knights.’ She feared her words would not be grand enough, that she would look foolish and young. “Words are wind,” she remembered hearing, but she shad the sword as well. Ghost wandered in then, padding on silent feet until he came to her and settled beside her. She wondered if Jon had called to him.

“Tomorrow,” she said in a clear, carrying voice, “we begin the quest to reclaim Winterfell, the ancestral seat of House Stark, the Kings of Winter. And make no mistake, my lords and ladies, winter is coming. Once we have the North, the true war begins.” She held out a hand for Jon to join her. “And who better to lead us through the darkness than my brother, Jon Sow, a prince of House Stark, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and a Knight of the Wall.”

Jon reached her. “Kneel, brother.” Jon’s surprised eyes flew to hers but he did so, head bowed. Then she saw a small smile flit across his lips as he realized what she was doing. When she had still been a little girl, imperious and in love with songs and tales, she had made Robb and Jon, and even Theon occasionally, play this game with her; She was Queen Naerys and they were her dragonknights, sworn to defend her honor before all the realm. As they grew older, Robb and Theon had refused to play the game, saying it was for girls and babies. But Jon had always played with her. Until the day she had learned what ‘bastard’ meant and she had not asked him any longer.

Sansa held the sword out over his head. “Although freed of your oaths to the Wall by your death, I name you Lord Commander in the North and in all Westeros, leader of those who face the Winter and what waits beyond the Wall, and a Knight of House Stark!” She dubbed him gently on each shoulder. “Rise, Lord Commander Snow,” and as Jon did so, thunderous approval filled the hall.

“Lord Commander!” they shouted, and “White Wolf” and “the Black Knight.” And Sansa knew that they loved her brother and she had been right; the North might crown her queen and Robbs’s heir, but it was Jon they would follow.

Sansa waved towards the musicians and they took their places and began a rousing rendition of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.” Everyone laughed and tables were pushed back as the dancing began. Sansa handed Jon his sword back as he moved up the steps to stand beside her. Mya Stone brought him the sheath and smiled at him. Her eyes were bright and beautiful. Sansa suddenly heated the girl. Jon had always been closer to tomboyish Arya than to her, and his Wildling lover had been an archer and a spearwife. Perhaps Jon liked Mya Stone in her boiled leather with her short, boyish hair and her tough demeanor. 

Jon was watching her, not Mya, with faint amusement on his face, his grey eyes lighter than she could remember them being in a while. She forced a smile onto her lips. She could see Lord Baelish and Ser Harry making towards her.

Jon placed his sword on the table and held out a hand to her. He did not bow like a southerner would, or kiss her hand, or recited flowery words. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “I know I have no skill in this, but would you like to dance, Sansa?”

Sansa placed her hand in his.

The musicians, seeing her descended, broke off a bawdy northern ballad and struck up a slower, sweeter song that Sansa knew was from the Reach. “My fair rose,” it was called.  
Jon grimaced, no doubt expecting imminent embarrassment, but he pulled her close. Sansa remembered the last time she had seen him dance; at Winterfell when the Karstarks had looked to betroth Alys to Robb. Robb had been gallant, she recalled, and Jon had been sullen, hiding in a corner even when little Alys Karstark asked him to dance with her. Sansa giggled at the memory and Jon rolled his eyes at her. 

“I’m glad you take joy in my humiliation, my queen, but I fear I will not make a splendid first impression as your Lord Commander should I fall on my face.”

“Alys Karstark remembered you fondly and you refused to dance with her,” Sansa returned, and subtly guided him through the steps. He relaxed after a bit and even attempted to twirl her, which ended in disaster but made her laugh again.

Many people were watching them, but Sansa liked that, and she liked that they were smiling. When the song ended, the musicians struck up a fast reel from the Riverlands and Jon swung Sansa around until she was pink-cheeked and breathless. When he returned her to her seat, her heart was pounding and she felt as light as a bird.

He vanished soon afterwards, probably hoping to avoid any more dancing, and Sansa refused all other offers as well. After a time, she stood up and excused herself to Lord Baelish, saying that fresh air would do her well. He was looking a bit glassy-eyed and merely nodded.

She wandered outside, Ghost following her, and found herself once more heading towards the godswood. The snow crunched under foot and her breath frosted in the air. Shivering a bit, and mourning her lack of foresight to bring her cloak, she stood beneath the weirwood and waited.

She was rewarded for her patience when Littlefinger followed her.

“It is hard to get you alone, my lady,” he told her. He was breathing hard and even sweating, she noticed.

“Are you well, Lord Baelish?” she inquired, but he appeared not to hear her.

“If you are not with your bastard half-brother than you are with his wolf.” He gave the direwolf a disgusted look and Ghost bared his teeth in response. Sansa rested a calming hand on the wolf’s head.

“Did you come here to say something in particular, Lord Baelish, or just to insult what little family I have left?” Her voice was like ice.  
Littlefinger pulled his high collar, held by a silver mockingbird, distractedly away from his throat. He was still breathing heavily. He took a step closer to her, but Ghost made to move forwards and he thought better of it and retreated. “Tell me, Lady Stark,” he demanded, and his voice was now as cold as her own, “what game you’re playing at.”

“Game, Lord Baelish?” Sansa inquired. “That’s more your area than mine.”

He studied her narrowly. “I offer you your home and you tell me that it belongs to your bastard brother as well. I offer you a suitable marriage and alliance with the Vale and you turn down a chance for Harrold Hardyng to lead your army and instead name your bastard brother as Lord Commander. I tell you of the dangers of keeping that bastard so close to you, and you give him more authority, send him before the lords, and ignore my advice in favor of his own at every turn.”

Now he did take a step forward and seized her chin, forcing her face to his. Ghost only did not rip out his throat because Sansa had a death grip around his neck. He kissed her viciously on the lips and she could smell the sweet, decaying scent on his breath.

She pulled away from him. “You are not well, Lord Baelish.”

He laughed bitterly as he stumbled back from her. “Oh, I am well my lady, and I see clearly, for the first time.” He bestowed a disgusted look upon her now. “You are in love with him.” He said it again, as if not quite believing it. “You are in love with your own brother. Your bastard brother.”

“Half-brother,” Sansa murmured, but did not think he heard.

“You are in love with that…spitting image of Ned Stark.” He laughed hollowly now and then began to cough. He continued to cough, great, wracking coughs, until he was bent over double in the snow, which was now speckled red with blood.

“Are you sure you are well, my lord?” Sansa asked again, sweetly.

And he looked up at her, his eyes widening in realization for the first time.

“Yes,” she agreed “You are dying. You have been for some time. I thought it appropriate to kill you in a way the old gods would approve of, since you did your best to destroy my family.” She played with one of the red, red leaves that had drifted down from the weirwood tree. She wondered if Bran was watching; if he would see his sister become a murderer. She pushed the thought aside and focused again on Littlefinger. “Did you think,” she continued, “for one instant, that I would let you harm the last family that I have?” She was unmoved as he tried to get words out and clawed at his throat in panic. “Any day now you would have arranged an ‘accident’ for my brother, as you did for my Aunt Lysa, and as you planned for my cousin, Robin Arryn. But you cannot have my brother. You cannot have Jon.” She stepped over him and walked away.

After a few steps, she turned back. “You played the game, Littlefinger,” she told the man who had once been her mother’s childhood friend. “And you lost.”

And then she left him there, to die in the cold and the snow, underneath the bone white face of the old gods of the North.

 

&.……&…….&…….&……&…….&

 

This chapter was incredibly difficult to write and I’m still not satisfied with it. Did you like Littlefinger’s end? I’m just waiting for something similar to happen on the show. Sansa will deal with him swiftly, I am sure. Next chapter will be Jon and his attempts to turn this ragtag bunch of fighters into an army as they march south. Lyanna Mormont will feature prominently, as will a scene between her and Tormund.


End file.
